Sherdie in Brisvegas

The end

2008-07-10T12:51:00.002+10:00

You may have noticed a silence from this part of the blogosphere lately. It's a combination of reasons, not least that it started being a chore. I've realised after two and a half years and a lot of words, it's time to say goodbye.

To an extent, this blog has served its purpose. Brisvegas feels like home now. I've put my fingerprints around here and there, I have friends and family and a little nest to call my own, a job that sustains my brain and my desire for pretty shoes, and in the most hackneyed and cliched way possible, the love of the most awesome man in the world (and lots of sex - that part's good too).

So, farewell, all you lovely people who have read my words and commented and made me feel part of a big, clever and wonderful community. I'll still be around - I have no intention of giving up my addiction to rss - but no more sherdieinbrisvegas. I've loved this blogging life; I wouldn't have kept going otherwise. I have no doubt that I'll miss it, sooner or later, and come back seeking forgiveness and readmittance to the fold.

But in the meantime, I didn't want to leave things hanging. So.

The end.

La dolce vita

2008-04-24T02:25:00.002+10:00

Sorry it's been a bit quiet around here lately. I'm in Rome, just about to start heading south towards Amalfi. GigPig and I are having quite the nice time, thanks for asking.

Regular programming to resume after mid-May. In the meantime, go and enjoy a walk in the sunshine. It's what I've been doing.

In other news

2008-03-26T20:49:00.002+10:00

That other thing?

I really don't want to say too much. But it's good. Better than good. The world has changed colour.

Connections

2008-03-26T19:45:00.003+10:00

I've been thinking a lot about the nature of friendship. What does history add to the tensile strength of the connection between two people, and is the weight of years enough to hold it together when everything else has eroded? Love, respect, guilt and obligation and their effect on the breaking strain.

Alby's in town and has been my partner in these rambling chats. She makes it clear for me, 'It's the past. The past is important. But it's the past.'

Coming to terms with changing connections as you move through life: learning to enjoy it for what it is, or was; understand it forms a part of who you are; and let it go when it has come to its end, without regret or sadness.

The sadness is unavoidable though, isn't it?

Shake it, shake it, shake it like a polar bear bit ya

2008-03-13T17:42:00.003+10:00

I forgot to mention Miff and I went to karaoke the other night, and it was gold, and we sang often and loudly, and I had bruises on my hand from the tambourine the next day. I *think* we sang Hey Ya, but I'm not sure, but in any case I've been humming our version of the lyrics for the last couple of days.

Which is good, because I haven't been doing much else. Did you know you can buy an enormous tub of powerade powder and it's a lot cheaper than buying the same thing diluted in water? Apparently it's good for active people and sporting teams. Also good for sick people who think gastrolyte tastes like arse. Blackcurrant-flavoured arse is still arse. Although, after your fourth blue-flavoured powerade, you start thinking that a different flavour might be alright. And then you remember that the different flavour is ARSE, and you change your mind.

So, what else happened? Well, I became one of those people who needs to sit on a random bench on the side of the road and take a break on the ten minute walk back from the shop. Then again, I was carrying an enormous tub of powerade powder. Up a ~~very steep hill~~ oh, ok, slight gradient.

I have the attention span of a gnat. The intertubes tell me this is because my brain is lacking nutrients. Today I've consumed some rice and about twice my own body weight in, you guessed it, blue powerade. I keep finding myself with a pounding heart and shaking hands. Leading to the singing. Hilarious.

It's not all illness and blue food colouring though. I'm feeling a lot better than yesterday, and let's not even think about the day before. I'm about to eat some chicken and vegies for dinner, which is pretty exciting. The passing resemblance I've been cultivating to Skeletor won't take long to get rid of, and fingers crossed, I'll be hale and hearty by tomorrow night. Which is important. Because I'll be seeing someone who makes my heart pound and my hands shake. But in a good way.

Lay me low

2008-03-11T18:07:00.002+10:00

There's a lurgy going around the 'vegas and it's come to visit at my place. It's all grated apples, plain rice and weak black tea around here at the moment. The lurgy is mostly under control and limited to making my stomach feel like I slipped some razorblades into my plain rice (mmm, steely). I haven't eaten anything much since Saturday, which doesn't sound like so long ago to you, but that's most likely because you've eaten since then. I'm so hungry I could eat my entire fridge, but then I'd get the razorblade thing again. Vicious cycle.

But that's ok, because in general, kids, life is sweet.

My gorgeous Miff came for a visit on the weekend and took me out for cosmopolitans and Turkish food. The drinks cost more than dinner because neither of us was very hungry - even though I hadn't really eaten all day (looking back it's because I was starting to get sick) (although that's probably also me trying to excuse my fairly spectacular drunkenness later in the evening and corresponding extreme hangover the next day).

I've been thinking about activation energy. It's one of my favourite concepts. In a chemical reaction, there's a little energy speed bump to be overcome before the reaction can go ahead. I like it because I like the idea of catalysts, which basically make the speed bump lower, and there are parallels outside of chemistry in all sorts of things. Like relationships between people.

Before you write that off as a product of my glucose-starved brain, let me give you an example. Meeting a stranger, and meeting the friend of a friend. The difference is that your mutual friend is a catalyst, lowering the activation energy for friendship. It's not a very radical idea, but I was reminded of it when I introduced Miff and MsG over drinks.

That's all I got. I'm going to go and concentrate on not throwing up now. Thanks for your time.

Lazy Sunday baking: Lan's white chocolate, coconut and macadamia biscuits

2008-03-02T15:31:00.000+10:00

Last Christmas, the four QKC girls decided on a handmade-only deal for presents.

Lan, being a dab hand at all things bakery, made us these biscuits. Mine were the victim of an unfortunate post office incident in which they sat, uncollected, until after the new year had come and gone... and they were still the best damn biscuits I've ever tasted. I've since made them a few times to rave reviews. I believe the secret is the love I put into them... or maybe the four different types of fat in the oil, chocolate, macadamia nuts and coconut.

Ingredients
1 1/3 cups macadamia nuts, roasted, chopped or smashed into chunks
1 egg
3/4 cup soft brown sugar
2 tbsp white sugar
1 tsp vanilla essence
1/2 cup oil
1/2 cup plain flour
1/4 cup self-raising flour
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 cup shredded coconut
3/4 cup white chocolate bits

Method
1) Beat the egg and sugars in a bowl until light and fluffy.

Lan uses an electric beater. Me, I just have the old hand powered one. Still works good, but. This is using my hott salad bowl/small mixing bowl (I'm all about multi-use utensils... or perhaps I don't own a "mixing bowl" as such).

Note this is a doubled batch.

2) Add vanilla and oil, mix well.

3) Stir in the sifted flours, cinnamon, coconut, macadamias and chocolate, and mix well.

Mmmm, chunky. Tastes pretty good at this stage as well.

This is after I'd realised that a double batch meant twice the volume and transferred the mixture to my rice cooker/medium mixing bowl.

4) Put in fridge for 30 mins.

5) Preheat oven to 180C.

6) Put spoonfuls on biscuit tray or similar.

The debut of my $2 shop silicone biscuit sheet. I was a little bit worried but as you can see, it worked just like a bought one.

That's not chocolate on the right there, but a slightly over-roasted macadamia nut chunk. I got distracted while I was roasting them. I like to call it 'caramelised'.

7) Bake for 12-15 mins, depending on how chewy/crispy you like your biscuits.

8) Allow to cool on trays (stops them cracking).

9) Eat.

I'm off to dinner at a friend's house. I'm taking these and the smugness that comes with a good biscuit recipe.

Pause

2008-03-01T09:32:00.002+10:00

One of the tricky things with personal blogs is the gap between the moment as lived and the moment as written.

Meaning, I live it as a single point in time surrounded by many other points. For whatever reason, I decide to write about that point, or that thought, which elevates it to a declaration of my general state of mind. When really, it's just a moment, written down.

This boils down to: don't worry about me based on a single sooky/ emo/ angsty post. If I'm actually sad, I shut down and go away from people. So if I'm writing here, I'm fine. Sometimes things snag in my mind and the way to get rid of them is to take a good look at them by capturing them in words on a page. Then they're sorted, largely forgotten even - it's the end of the process for me. But I forget those things are still here, and you, reading them, are seeing them as fresh and new.

If you (lovely, caring people around me) remember that, I'll try not to use this space quite so much as cheap therapy and cause you unnecessary concern. Deal?

Not that some individual moments aren't important too. Like the moment when you pause and think, "wow, that's the most beautiful smile. I could spend a lot of time looking at that smile."

Don't even ask me yet. I'll tell you when there's something to tell.

Umiyuki

2008-02-26T21:28:00.003+10:00

Here's the filmclip for American-born singer Jero's song Umiyuki.

He promised his Japanese grandmother he'd become a famous enka singer.

He's just broken some chart records in Japan with his debut single. (via tokyomango)

I promised my Japanese grandmother I'd call her on Sunday.

I forgot.

He wins.

sans grenadine

2008-02-22T07:42:00.001+10:00

The talented trio Damo, Fflur and Simone, masquerading as sans grenadine, have launched their myspace page: check it.

Sweet acoustic pop indeed. Cure for your angsty soul (is that a ukelele?).

Once is an accident, twice looks like carelessness

2008-02-21T23:33:00.004+10:00

Let's get a bit emo for the weekend, shall we?

Over Christmas I had a chat with my (awesome) parents. The topic was my singledom; of course, being the people who made me, they just want to See Me Happy And Looked After (TM).

Which I get. I too would quite like to SMHALA.

So after a lot of thinking and talking to people who know about these things, we've drawn the conclusion that perhaps I am a touch broken from my encounters with the romantic side of life.

Not to harp on about this (sorry to the kids that already know how this story ends), but it seems my special talent, not unlike some shithouse B-grade movie or crap Cosmo article*, is to have long and involved relationships with boys, ending somewhat painfully, following which said boys go on to meet the loves of their lives and are, in 100% of cases, currently cohabiting with the partners they met following our respective relationships.

Or (this is where the title comes in), during.

Cue an in-drawing of breath between our collective teeth.

Ouch.

Back to the chat with the parentals. I contend I am unable to do the casual thing (by the by, yes, my parents are so cool they think I should get out there and 'have fun'). It turns out I am all or nothing, and given the track record, nothing seems to be the safer option. I don't know when I stopped being able to have a middle ground, but there it is.

I don't know what my point is, really.

All is fucking scary, perhaps.

Trust is elusive, perhaps.

I need to get over it, perhaps.

And yet. And yet...

---------------------
* redundant, yes, I know

By popular demand

2008-02-18T22:15:00.002+10:00

The reading:

A Declaration of Need
by John Hegley

I need you like a novel needs a plot.
I need you like the greedy need the lot.
I need you like a hovel needs a certain level of grottiness to qualify.
I need you like acne cream needs spottiness.

Like a calendar needs a week.
Like a colander needs a leek.
Like people need to seek out what life on Mars is.
Like hospitals need vases.
I need you.

I need you like a zoo needs a giraffe.
I need you like a psycho needs a path.
I need you like King Arthur needed a table
that was more than just a table for one.

I need you like a kiwi needs a fruit.
I need you like a wee wee needs a route out of the body.
I need you like Noddy needed little ears,
just for the contrast.

I need you like bone needs marrow.
I need you like straight needs narrow.
I need you like the broadest bean needs something else on the plate
before it can participate
in what you might describe as a decent meal.

I need you like cappuccino needs froth.
I need you like a candle needs a moth
if it's going to burn its wings off.

Dear Owen,

2008-02-18T18:35:00.004+10:00

One day, I'll tell you my version of the story of how your parents met. You will have heard it from other people, but mine goes something like this: I had two wonderful friends. I invited them both to the pub, because I wanted them to meet each other. Not because I thought they'd fall in love, just because I liked their company and we all liked the same pub.* It was one of the best things I ever did, because I can trace an indirect path from that decision to you, the serious-faced completely edible baby with the incredible smile.

It also led to last Saturday, when your mummy and daddy stood in front of their family and friends and told us they will love each other forever. They were under the trees and the sky, and you were there in your Da's arms (one of your favorite places to be), after you and your Da walked your mummy down the aisle.

You won't remember the day, the perfect weather, the tiny pink cupcakes, how you danced in the bridal waltz. How your daddy's voice cracked when he promised to build a home for your family, thinking of you and brothers and sisters to come. How your mummy was so loud and definite when she said "I will", because she wanted the whole world to know.

Half an hour before that, I woke you up, and your mummy and I put you in a dry nappy and your wedding clothes. Your mummy was focusing on one thing at a time, so she wouldn't cry. I didn't tell her at the time, but I was too. Trying to stay light and calm, distract her with chatter, even though she's always been able to see straight through me and I was about as useful for helping her maintain her composure as someone shouting "HE LOVES YOU AND YOU LOVE HIM AND YOU'RE GETTING MARRIED".

She looked so beautiful, her wedding dress shimmering in that darkened room at her parents' house, laughing because I couldn't get those silly little press-studs done up on your outfit.

It's hard to distil into a sentence the depth of the things I feel about your parents. I'm not alone in that opinion. The evidence is in the volume of smiles and wet eyes at their wedding, and the distance people travelled to share the day with them. There was never any question that I would be there, but it's just a hop, skip and a jump for me. Other people took their first holiday in two years and pulled strings at embassies to be there.

Your parents love a lot of people, and are loved in return. I'm constantly humbled to share in that, and to be a part of your life, even at a distance.

And when you're old enough, I'll tell you the real story about the night they first kissed.

love,
Auntie Sherd

-----------------------------
* ok, maybe I had a sneaky hope they'd fall in love.

Something old, something new

2008-02-14T00:07:00.004+10:00

My washing machine died.

Well, technically, my washing machine has been dead for a while. At least a year. We're talking about my old washing machine, which ran on that newfangled electric power. Not the washing machine I've been using for over a year, which runs on me power.

A couple of weeks ago the old one got pulled to pieces. I took the glass window from the front door (for a salad bowl), and I had visions of a stainless steel drum planter, all modern and shiny with lemongrass bursting from the top. I didn't reckon on the massive, solid, very-well-riveted steel shaft coming out the bottom of the drum. No worries, though, it's now doing upside down double duty as a plant stand and foot stool.

Shiny.

I also got my hands on a wall sticker, from Wall Allure. I've been lusting after these for a while, and then I saw them in the Craft Queensland gallery and it got bad. Real bad. A stroll through the Valley markets and, well, let's just say I was very restrained to come home with only one. I sense that one day the lotus and the bamboo may make it into my little house; for now, I'm content with the curly bird.

Curly.

I'm off to spend the weekend sipping champagne in a pink dress. Have a good one.

Sorry

2008-02-13T20:34:00.005+10:00

I've been on the edge of tears all day, surfing my feeds and the interwebs and watching the speech, but it was Facebook, oddly enough, that finally turned a trickle into a gulping flow. Scrolling down and seeing the long row of names with the status 'is sorry'... I'm full of pride and grief and hope and the overwhelming sense that we're all in this together.

Bring on the morning.

2008-02-12T17:51:00.000+10:00

The Apology.

Dammit Farbs, I've got work I should be doing!

2008-02-11T13:49:00.000+10:00

Farbs has released his latest game, Fishie Fishie (well, a month ago).

It looks divine, thanks to this clever clogs. It has cool munching noises. I kept thinking, 'ok, I'll stop after this level. No, this level. Oh, ok, the next level.'

The only problem is now I'm hungry. And I keep wondering if I've fed Dude the SuperBlueFish today.*

As Molly would say, do yourself a favour.

-------------------------
* Yes.

Skin writing

2008-02-09T22:43:00.000+10:00

Dermatographia is a fairly common disorder where pressure on the skin causes hives. You've probably never heard of it.

This artist has it. (via notcot)

Me too.

Here's what happens.

You draw on your skin with something blunt, like a chopstick.

After about 5 minutes, your skin responds.

It gets more acute over the next ten or twenty minutes, as you wonder why you didn't think to do this on an area of your body easier to photograph than the inside of your forearm.

Then it goes away.

Easily amused? Entirely possibly.

Seemingly unrelated statements

2008-02-08T23:58:00.000+10:00

It rained tonight, suddenly, and a lot.

The Roar won the soccer 2-0.

Beer in a plastic cup tastes the same as other beer.

Have you never seen a girl splashing down George St in bare feet before? No need to stare, people.

Playing with light(s)

2008-02-06T20:12:00.000+10:00

I've put up my various strings of lights.

Well, put in, sometimes, rather than up.

My lamp in the kitchen. It can drain pasta too (just remember to take the fairy lights out first).

I want a chandelier in the bathroom. This will do until I can afford an electrician. I got these lights years ago (at the Hive, how I miss thee), and they've seen better days. During the day you can see the sticky tape and the broken pieces.

But at night, I love the little stars. And the little moons. And the little suns too.

Festive desk lighting. I can choose work mode... or *groovy*.

Tongue-tied

2008-02-05T20:07:00.000+10:00

Today, as I was riding the lifts, someone I know hopped on.

On a normal day, I'd be able to have a quick chat about whatever, lasting about the time it takes to get to the ground floor.

Today, I knew a thing about the person that I'm not supposed to know. I've mentioned before that people tell me things, but generally it's not an issue. But this time, all I could think was cannot not seem like I know cannot seem like I know cannot seem like I know.

Of course, every sentence I went to start was trying to end up letting them know their mate had spilled the beans. It was so frustrating. I gaped like a fish. I spluttered. I burbled. I made poor recoveries.

"So are you happy about... er... lunch? ...Um... I am!"

"When do you get to finish... um... your lunch?"

Really, what I should have done was say, "Hey, your mate told me your good news. Congratulations. I'll keep it under my hat until you announce it."

It's a moot point now, anyway. That person's now convinced I'm suffering from a mild intellectual disability and if it ever comes up they'll say, her? She can't string a sentence together and she's obsessed with lunch. Why on earth would I worry that you'd told her?

But I forgot

2008-02-01T22:32:00.000+10:00

How did I spend New Years Eve?

Surrounded by talk, light, love and laughter.

And taking (slightly squiffy) photos of the long-suffering dog (I was squiffy, not her).

Should be a good 'un ahead, I dare say.

How did I get a blister on my heel?

2008-02-01T21:08:00.000+10:00

In flat shoes?

Walking home with MsG along the Riverwalk after a couple of sneaky beers, that's how.

We get blisters because we walk too fast.

We walk too fast because we solve the world's problems as we walk.

We solve the world's problems by getting so involved we don't notice our feet until we get blisters.

They say the way you spend new years eve is the way you'll spend the year.*

2008-02-01T20:16:00.000+10:00

I spent Christmas in the heat and sweat of the monsoon.

Well, technically, the monsoon only came through on Boxing Day. So really, I spent Christmas in the heat and sweat of the build-up, and new years in the cool of the monsoon.

Whatever.

I was home, and it rained, and when it didn't rain, it was hot.

There's a strange feeling I get when I'm at home. I shouldn't be surprised, sentimental idiot that I am. That aching pull that comes with knowing what a place looks like in all different kinds of light. There's a version of me that exists in that light, a version slightly changed from other, differently lit versions of me. All these versions, overlaid, simulacra. When I am in the version closest to who I think I am, I feel most comfortable, most real, most in this world. The bruised yellow-grey halflight before the storm, when the wind gusts high and cool and the world shrinks and is enclosed in a wall of falling water. There. I am.

----------------------
* Or was this on the OC? I grow hazy in my advanced age.

I won't decorate my love

2008-02-01T19:45:00.000+10:00

I'm finally doing the thing I thought of when I first walked up the steps to this World's Biggest Impulse Buy (TM)--sitting on the verandah, with a glass of wine, some twinkling city lights in the distance, a laptop and a feeling of peace.

It's gold.

I've been thinking about this blogging business, why I do it, why I don't do it. It started as a lazy way to keep in touch with people. Then it became an outlet, an expression of a part of who I am. The problem there is I tend to think I'm in this private, blurty, spontaneous space, when in fact people are reading it and making judgements about how I am and what I am doing and what I should or shouldn't be doing... and then feel the need to have discussions with me about those things.

Based on what I've written here.

Well, why write that stuff then?

The thing is, I like this litte sherdie space I've created. The name started as a bit of a joke (thanks Miff), but now I like it. I want to keep going with it.

Also because I'm too lazy to change.

So it looks like we're stuck with it.

Let's go with it then.

Checking in

2008-01-14T21:59:00.000+10:00

...and then it was 2008.

Well, that kinda snuck up on us, didn't it?

The rest of December was a blur. I got to do some cool and a little bit scary things at work, and realised they weren't really so scary after all.

January so far is a blur. Doing an intensive French course, so that when I go to le la France I can parlez. Get up, go to work early, leave work early, go to class, go home, sleep. Rinse, repeat, four nights a week. Two weeks to go.

The break over New Years was tops, thanks, monsoons and whuffling dogs and crocodiles and good things like that. I've got some things to say about it, but it remains to be seen if the French course wipes my brain before I get everything written down.

Until then...

Deck the walls

2007-12-13T21:21:00.000+10:00

I always take my time putting up my Christmas decorations. This year I look even longer because I don't have a tree. Then I was inspired by Cee's post on decorating with lights.

What's the point in having yards and yards of pristine white walls* if you can't use them for good? So I made a tree on the wall, from lights and my small but much-loved bunch of ornaments. Voila. It feels like Christmas in here. Warm and smiley.

And then I took photos with my shoddy phone. Then I made a collage for you all to enjoy.

Enjoy. Happy Christmas.

----------------------------
* No, I haven't quite got around to putting pictures on the walls. They're around, leaning on the tops of bookshelves and things... it just seems so final to put a hole in the wall. This is the essence of stupidity, I know. Because the mortgage and the body corp payments HAVEN'T GOT THE POINT ACROSS YET.

My brain. It is demented.

Maybe

2007-12-11T22:46:00.000+10:00

Maybe you don't notice how far you are in it until someone from outside points it out.

Maybe you don't know how much you don't want it until you're in a room with the people with teh names and you can't be bothered playing the game.

Maybe you don't see how easy it is until you do it.

And it's easy.

Maybe you don't realise how much you need water until a tall, cool glass comes your way.

Maybe you want more, or less, than this candlelit room full of handshakes and whispers.

Even if the hors d'œuvres are nice.

Blah blah blah

2007-11-30T22:01:00.000+10:00

* I sold my car.
Billie the Shoebox has been handed over to a 17 year old. He is being loved and cut & polished to within an inch of his life, and looks like a new car. Meanwhile, I am carless. De-car-ed. For the first time since I was a teenager. I walk to work. I walk to the markets. I get the bus, or taxi, or train, to where I need to go. I cancelled my car insurance today. It was a nice moment.

* I got my motorbike learner's licence.
Much to my mother's horror. I promise, Ma, I have even less interest in hurting myself or dying than you do. Promise.

* I realised my boss wants me to stay and thinks I might leave. Thinks I could walk into a job at a higher level. And is prepared to try to keep me.
How odd. I don't think I'm a bad worker but I'm pretty sure I'm replaceable. Here's hoping my boss doesn't realise that any time soon. Weirdly, it's this more than anything else that has made me want to stay.

* A crush was born, and it died, and no-one noticed except for me and the poor bastards I whinged to about it.
This is why I am single; this chronic inability to act, 素直になれない. Or as K says, because I'm so good at talking myself out of things. At its height, my hands shook after I talked to him. How is it that I can be confident in my work, in my life in general, but when it comes to attraction, I'm suddenly all I carried a watermelon? Gah. It's been a while since I was this interested in someone else's story. Did I tell him that? No. Because I am the world's biggest fraidycat. But today there was a moment where I realised he wasn't interested in my story. All evidence to: he thinks I'm a twit. Ah well. Fish, sea, something or other (but I wanted that fish...).

* A weekend ahead to fill up my heart.
Did you know? I am surrounded by the most incredible people. Some of them are in Brisbane, some of them are scattered across the country. Tomorrow, after a morning spent with two of my most favorite people in the world, I'll fly south to bask in the varied presences of some other top folks. And I'll be all, "romantic love is shit, it's all about your friends." And it will be true.

Common feeling

2007-11-26T18:54:00.000+10:00

A big difference between this election and the last--apart from the obvious, duh--is how it felt.

Last time I was closer to the campaigning, probably close enough that I couldn't see the forest. I was living in the Canberra small-l-liberal bubble, and I shared a house with a Labor staffer. That's gotta warp your perceptions a bit. I was hoping against hope and the disappointment was personal as well as political.

This time, I had a broader view. Blogs were a large part of this, and the wealth of views on the tubes gave me understanding of the different sides. I mean, people don't generally spew bile and invective about their political views in day to day life. But swing past your Blairs and Bolts and the comments section of most news.com.au articles and you'll be clobbered with vitriol about, well, anything and everything, really, but particularly about how LATTE BELT WETS R RUINING THIS LAND AND RUDD EATS HIS EARWAX HOW COULD HE RUN THE COUNTRY. Or to paraphrase the awesome Clarke and Dawe, "Boo!"

On the flip side was the sense that I wasn't alone. Blog after blog after blog after blog after blog of people with rational, intelligent things* to say about it all (and the occasional lolpollie, which I am more than ok with). And that's before you even get to the politics blogs (filed in my rss reader under 'ranty', to remind me that all people have barrows to push; even if you quite agree with the barrow, it doesn't hurt to remember). I didn't have the time or the energy to do much more than pay attention, but knowing I was part of a much bigger, rantier community made the endless campaign more bearable and the final result that much sweeter.

Also last time there were no First Dog On The Moon cartoons. I'm sad that the end of the campaign means the end of these popping up in my Crikey every day.

---------------------------
* and their own fair share of vitriol, it's true.

The washup

2007-11-25T08:17:00.000+10:00

Lost

- Favorite shorts, ripped right up the back. Trying to put it down to cheap manufacturing and not my expanding backside. Added bonus, hi election party, here's my bum. I was at my house though, so a quick step into the wardrobe and my bum was covered again. Phew.

- Dignity. See above. See also: scotch.

- A champagne glass. There's one less than there was but no broken glass in the bin. All very mysterious.*

- That Liberal-voting facebook friend. She unfriended me last night. Probably after I changed my status to "...is ecstatic FUCK YEAH!", when hers was "...is devastated." Would I have done the same if it had gone the other way? No. I would have been too busy moving to Scandinavia. On balance, I'm much sadder about the champagne glass, which was a present from the lovely MsG. It's going to be awkward next time I see Cap'n Conservative at work though. Mainly because I'll be trying not to grin.

Gained

- Relief. Hope. Faith in the Australian people.

- Many random text messages, sent and received.

- A dirty hangover. See: scotch.

- A female deputy PM.

- A full dinner party. Friends expecting dinner guests who cancelled at the last minute thought, "hmmm, we have a delicious three course meal ready to be served. I know, let's pack it up and take it to Sherd's to feed the hungry election watchers!" Truly. Awesome. Stuffed mushroom? Don't mind if I do.

- This exchange:
Ring ring, ring ring
Dad: Heh heh heh
Me: Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!
Dad: You little bee-auty!
Me: Woo-hoo!
Dad: Heh heh heh
Me: Bye!
Dad: Bye!

I think I came out ahead.

----------------------------
* More likely it's in the outside bin.

Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay!

2007-11-24T21:33:00.001+10:00

That is all.

Pleasepleaseplease

2007-11-23T22:49:00.000+10:00

I turned 18 at the end of 1996.

My whole voting life has been Howard.

I have seen the people I support lose every election I have voted in.

Please.

Tomorrow, please. Please, for the love of whatever you believe in, let the divisive cunt be voted out. Please, this country of mine, make me believe in you.

Please.

Sleep tight

2007-11-21T22:11:00.000+10:00

So I bought a new bed on the weekend.

WHY DID NO ONE TELL ME?

I'm considering giving up my job/life/whatever in order to spend more time with my new love/bed.

Three nights into good sleep and the world has taken on a different hue.

It's madness, really.

But sweet madness.

Sweet, supportive, comfortable madness.

Lavender, for remembrance

2007-11-11T09:41:00.000+10:00

It's that other significant day in November, the one that's not to do with horses.

All four of my grandparents were involved in WWII. Three of them were in the armed forces, and the other one had her country bombed and then occupied during it. Today I'm thinking about the Jiich, who would never have put up with being called the Jiich while he was alive.

Jiichama was a tough old man. Last week would have been his 90th birthday. He was a Rat of Tobruk, and he was in Japan as part of BCOF. I never knew him as anything but white-haired and gruff. At his funeral I spoke of how as little kids, we were always scared of him. You never knew when you were going to get in trouble for drinking standing up, brushing your hair at the table or generally being a bad-mannered child. I also spoke of how as I got older, I began to appreciate the fierce love and devotion he had to us, his family, and the strength of his determination, something he passed on to my mother in spades.

The summer I turned nineteen I stayed with my grandparents, in between uni years. That summer, we pretty much hung out, did the gardening, swam in the pool, walked the dog. I think that was when he stopped seeing me as a younger version of my mother. In the mornings, when the Baach was out visiting friends or shopping, we'd take a break from our respective tasks and have a cup of tea. At first we were very awkward, a gangly teenager, a taciturn grandfather and their scotch finger biscuits. A lot of slow, shy conversation about the weather and the tomatoes. But after a while we got more comfortable, with the talk and with the silences. He told me little snippets about my mum as a child. We shared looks when the tornado that is the Baach whirled in and told us what our plans for the rest of the day were. He even made up excuses to get me out of going shopping once or twice.

One thing he never talked about was the war. I never once heard him mention it in any context apart from how he met the Baach. To be fair, I never asked about it. Part of me wishes I had, so I could know more about him. I don't know that he would have told me much, though. He definitely didn't think war was a good thing, and there was no misty-eyed reminiscing about his time in the trenches.

However much I disagree with the reasons for wars past and present, it doesn't take away from the sacrifices people made and are making. On Remembrance Day I think about Jiichama's determination and his stoicism. How he went to war and killed people because they were the enemy, and walled those memories up so they didn't come out of his mouth. So I don't know what it was like or what it did to him. Whether the war forged an ordinary strength into this iron will, or whether it was already there.

I also think about his generosity of spirit. How he came home with an enemy bride, and they built this tight-knit family of four children and ten grandchildren. The K-family vortex. It's a package deal; others don't get involved with one person without the whole rest of the family coming along too. He loved them all fiercely, and he showed that love by making sure they would grow up to be strong, good people, because he believed that's what people need to be. Some of them have his eyes, and all of them have, to varying degrees, both generosity and complete mule-headed stubbornness as a personality trait.

Cheesy

2007-11-10T21:31:00.001+10:00

When I was about eleven, I had a sleepover at my friend Alison's house. One of the things about growing up rural is you don't go over to people's houses just for a little while. There is no 'dropping in' or 'popping around'. You pack clothes, and you stay.

Alison was the daughter of the local reverend. She lived in a house next to the school (she walked to school. We always found that completely amazing) and there was a church behind the house. Well, more of a large tin roof on posts, no actual walls as such, but whatevs. It had a cross and whatnot, and also a back room with a pool table. The pool table, in fact, on which I learnt my legendary mad pool skillz, courtesy of the rev himself, allowing me to say, "oh, I learnt to play pool in church." Not that I ever attended that church as a churchgoing person, except for when I slept over. Then, on Sunday morning I had to help Alison get the folding chairs out and set up them up into "pews" and pack them away when it was finished.

Back to this particular sleepover. We were snackish, but in other people's houses you're always a little unsure of what the snack rules are. In my house, for example, you could eat pretty much anything as long as Mum never caught you eating it. Because if you did get caught, it made it much harder to later try to blame your sibling/other parent/convenient pet.

"WHO ATE ALL THE BANANAS/EXPENSIVE STONE FRUIT/SMOKED OYSTERS?"

"Dunno. Definitely not me. The dogs are looking very guilty though..."

At this point in time, Alison had just discovered a new snack, very easy to make and highly delicious. You simply cut a thick slice of cheese, chucked it in the microwave in a bowl, pulled it out when melted, and ate it.

I remember being fairly stunned at this. Almost more stunned than when she taught me how to make little meringues, also in the microwave, and why had no-one ever shown me this way to ingest massive amounts of sugar disguised as "cooking" before? The cheese, though. It seemed so decadent. It was so decadent. The other thing she did was heat rice in the microwave (was there no end to the magical things this microwave could do? How come my microwave at home was only used to HEAT WATER and STEAM VEGETABLES? What sort of a shameful excuse for a microwave was it anyway?) and add butter, salt and pepper to it. Not soy sauce. Butter... to rice. I know. Crazy, right?

I grew out of the 'ZOMG must eat oil-laden food at all times' phase eventually. Until a few weeks ago when I got home, late at night, and, shall we say, a little under the weather. I'd been at the Lychee Lounge, and I think we need a brief diversion to discuss the sheer prettiness and also the sheer pretentiousness of their website. "Located in Brisbane's hip West End". Because I'm nasty, I can't help but wish a comma in there, "Located in Brisbane's hip, West End." "Having dinner in Brisbane's crotch, New Farm." "Going for lunch in Brisbane's solar plexus, Paddington." "Forced to visit the rellies in Brisbane's ankle, Burpengary." The possibilites are endless. Just like the comedy.

Endless.

Still, they do a damn tasty cocktail, although some part of me is relieved now I understand the reason for the hefty pricetag on said cocktail: it's all going on web design.

So there I am, a few/several/probably too many cocktails slain in the name of Friday night. Adding to the damage was other drinks at other fine establishments located in Brisbane's hip. There were celebrations, people getting jobs they wanted and finishing things and starting things, you know how it goes. At the time I was living just near the hip, stumbling distance, if you will, and at that time in the evening when it often descends into pizza-flavoured munchdom, I had stumbled home.

Right now I want to make a bid for I AM AWESOME. The next morning, when I woke up, I had no recollection of anything between getting to the front door and waking up. I looked at the state of the house and pieced together the sequence of events like some sort of CSI-ninja hybrid. Basically, in my tired and emotional state, I'd reverted to my eleven-year-old self:

1) Get in door.
2) Throw keys at couch and miss. Keys slide under couch. (This is very annoying the next day.)
3) Disrobe on the way through the kitchen and down the hallway.
4) Take out contact lenses.
5) Open a beer.*
6) Heat up some rice in the microwave.
7) Take out cheese and cut slices with sharp sharp knife at no point injuring myself.**
8) Put cheese on top of the rice, microwave some more so the cheese melts all over the rice.
9) Add salt and butter.
10) Eat. In bliss.
11) Leave kitchen as is and retire to drink beer in shower.
12) Collapse into bed but not before thoughtfully supplying my hungover future self with paracetamol and two litres of water on the bedside table.

I'd like to say the next morning, when I woke up, the combination of oil, dairy and carbohydrate had amazingly banished the toxins from my system, and I wasn't hungover.

That would be an enormous lie, though.

I did, however, think of my childhood friend Alison, and wonder what my life would be like if she'd taught me how to make salad, or bran muffins, or carrot cake, instead.

------------------------------------------------
* Probably not so much with the eleven-year-old self with the beer. At least fifteen. At LEAST.
** Understand, this is difficult for me even when sober, people.

Ethnic triad

2007-11-07T21:57:00.000+10:00

When I got back to Australia after being away, it was 1997. I'd missed the start of Pauline Hanson but I arrived in time to catch the whiplash from someone about the children of mixed marriages being mongrels (I always thought it was Hanson herself but the internet tells me different now).

Fast-forward a few years and I have a semi-regular dinner date with two friends, one part Fijian-Indian, one part Greek. We call it the ethnic triad. We take turns making dinner for each other, and the rule is that the dinner has to be from our respective ethnic backgrounds. It's not even a rule. We just do it, and we say, "I'm going to make this weird food for you, and you're going to eat it with sticks/your fingers/whatever, and you won't think I'm strange, you'll just understand it's ok not to be quite the same as everyone else." In the space created by our little circle, we share stories about cross-cultural ridiculousness. And whatever else springs to mind. We are, all three of us, born here, raised here, as Australian as vegemite and all the rest of it. We talk cricket, politics, the Chaser. We talk crazy weddings and nutty relatives and silly misunderstandings. We talk about our friends and our work and what we did on the weekend.

We are your mongrels. Children with names like Angus Chang and Laxmi Jones. A foot in each camp. I look mostly white, you know, a lot of people don't pick it. But you know what? I'm not. It's taken me a while to be comfortable with the idea, because I'm not that far removed. On some level, it seems like putting on airs. See, I grew up in this country. It feels like my country. There are other people who are much more different than I am. Much more mixed. Much newer. Less able to pass.

I've realised though, this doesn't diminish my own cultural turbulence. It's not about passing. It's about recognising that sometimes, I don't quite fit, I don't quite make sense, and that's ok. It's completely separate to any external other and their perceptions. This is about me. This is about how the way I think is just a little bit different to lots of other people, and that it's influenced by the thinking of the people from a different culture to the one that is around me every day.

So I don't care if it seems ridiculous that part of me aligns with a culture I'm supposedly distanced from because I've never "lived" it. I have lived it. I grew up with it. It came from my mother, and from her mother. When I was there, it was like scratching an itch I didn't even know I had. Epiphanies left, right and centre. THAT'S why. Oh, THERE'S the reason. Pieces of a puzzle suddenly falling into place.

The thing about the ethnic triad is the understanding of that. All three of us are mongrels; all three of us are comfortable moving about mainstream society. All three of us understand the limbo we are in, between our "ethnicity", meaning "other", and our identity as Australians. No justification is needed for the difference. It simply is, and I simply am, a not-quite-Anglo Aussie, accepted.

Now shut up, Spicks and Specks is on.

Milo bar

2007-11-06T20:17:00.000+10:00

Today I had a Milo bar.

It's been a few years, I admit. And I'm not a huge chocolate eater to start with. Maybe it was the horses, maybe it was the small lunch, but at about 3 o'clock I was craving some crunchy Milo action like there was no tomorrow.

Ah, Milo. There was a time, mostly in first year uni, when a cup full of Milo powder, with just enough milk added to make it into a paste, could be (and was) called lunch. The Milo bar was the next step, with the added bonus of chocolate on the outside. What's there not to love about Milo, and by extension, the Milo bar?

Well.

At some point in the last, ooh, few/ten years, they've done something AWFUL to the humble Milo bar. The Milo is gone, replaced by some sort of cardboard stuff, and there's a chewy part at the top, and WHERE IS THE MILO? It's not called a bullshit-chocolate-crackle-with-bad-caramel bar. It's a MILO bar.

I thought I'd gone mad, but a quick google shows that I'm not the only one not digging the "new, improved" version. Here's a petition to bring back the old Milo bar.

And you know what else? Trying to get to the Milo Australia website just takes you the Nestle front page, as if to rub your nose in how you've discarded your mid-nineties ban on buying Nestle products for the sake of a mid-afternoon craving. Although I did spend a couple of minutes on the Milo Malaysia site working out how healthy I was... Answer: LESS SO SINCE YOU ATE A 'NEW IMPROVED' MILO BAR, PORKER.

Bastards.

Thanks, but no

2007-11-05T18:52:00.000+10:00

With all this moving and painting and joining pieces of chipboard together with allen keys, you'd almost be forgiven for thinking I hadn't been paying attention to the outside world (house purchase as ultimate form of narcissism: discuss).

I did notice that election thing looming though. I haven't been talking about it much, because I get a bit paranoid about the (/any) level of political talking at work, as well I should, with that whole objective thing and all. This has led to a dilemma: someone from work keeps inviting me to the "I support John Howard" and "Vote LIBERAL on Nov 24th" groups on facebook.

What to do? Obvs, a) IGNORE. But then what? How do I let them know, in a polite way, that I would no more vote for John Howard than stab my eyeballs out with hot pokers, and not only do I not support him, I think he's an evil, divisive bastard?

Suggestions welcome.

Hey now now

2007-10-31T20:35:00.000+10:00

Following the veritable deluge of emails asking for photos, I have to confess that I've still not located the cable-thingy, and bluetooth doesn't want to work, so you'll have to settle for some descriptive writing. It will be of the kind you used to do in high school, to include in your portfolio, slid in between the analysis of war poetry (dulce et decorum est) and the essay about Macbeth.

Coming up the street, the house looms high. It's not as big as the place next door, but it stretches up and over me. It's a big timber thing, all yellow and green, federation colours. I know nothing about architecture so let's just say it's basically a big house, made of wood, with a pointy tin roof.

My place is on the "ground" floor, conveniently elevated to catch the breezes and fit some cars and general junk underneath. Skipping up the stairs we come to my first front door. It's yellow, like the house. Some idiot* has whimsically attached a ship's bell to it, all the better to hear you arrive for cups of tea, my dears.

Going through the door we end up on a secluded little verandah. It is currently covered in all manner of stuff, including (but not limited to) painting trestles, miscellaneous tools and paintbrushes, a spiffy aluminium ladder, chairs, the bathroom cupboard unceremoniously declared 'useless' and ripped from the wall, the trusty worm farm, an odd plant rack originally despised but now become quite dear to one's heart, and a variety of plants in a range of attitudes. The passionfruit vine, for example, that once climbed over and around the doorway to the kitchen in my old place, now has a distinctly folorn demeanour as it trails along the floor, resigned to waiting for some nails and some twine to resume some semblance of its former glory/height. And Leon the Lime, well, kids, let's just say that transporting a partially grown lime tree in a small shoebox car does not make a Leon healthy, wealthy and wise. So he lost a couple of branches, and given he only had a couple to begin with, he's looking decidedly twiggish. But soldiering on, as much as a dwarf lime can soldier on. And the mint is looking decidedly jaunty, SUN, FULL SUN, I DREAMT OF THIS ONCE, or some such.

Now we are at the second front door. This one is dark green, and has a doorknob oddly at hobbit height. Before we go on, won't you look a little to the right and see the matching hidden hobbit cupboard? It's secret storage, the under the stairs for upstairs, and mine to store what I will. When I tentatively poked a broomhandle in there, it came out covered in spiders and dust and I was tempted to leave the hobbit hole to the house gods. But we sherds don't give in that easily when there is storage space involved. So, following the judicious application of surface spray (from a pump spray, natch), and some awkward manoeuvring with a broom and a wet rag (not really clearance to get more than an arm in there), I discovered some hidden treasures/rubbish**, reduced the dust levels to a more reasonable state, and realised it was the perfect size to store my oil heater, snowboarding gear and a stack of Rolling Stone magazines from the mid 90s that I have for some reason been unable to get rid of.

Huzzah, etc.

So now we go into the actual space that is enclosed by walls. And oh, what walls they are. There are four of them, which is useful for symmetry, and they go all the way up to the roof, which is useful for privacy as well as keeping the rain off. The ceiling has this pattern of squares and stippled plaster which, now that it's painted, looks quitenicethankyou, even if I was cursing it mid-paint, balanced in midair on a wobbly trestle. The walls are white and high, 12 or so of those feet things or three and a half metres of space for me to stretch into. When I first came into the place, the real estate agent was busy outside, and I got to stand in here for a chunk of time, on my own, looking up. Feeling the space and the light. Seeing past the yellow, yellow walls to some sort of possible life.

Now we are standing in the middle of a large room. Underneath our feet are polished wooden floorboards of the darker kind. There are windows, count them, one two three, with wooden blinds. In fact, there's a lot of wood in general. Even the ceiling fan (!) is faux wood and metal, very trendy, four blades and shiny and cooling. It's a studio, which, for the uninitiated, is another word for bedsit, which is another word for ONE ROOM.

Off to the right is the kitchen, which turns out to be quite large, and has so many cupboards that I keep getting lost between them. It's separated from THE ROOM by a, well, I don't know, a really really big doorway perhaps. It has a gas stove which (gasp) works, meaning I have burnt a number of meals since moving here, being unaccustomed to a stove which gives off actual heat. And my morning routine has been thrown out of whack. Before, I'd put the kettle on to heat, go and have a shower, get dressed, eat food and then come back to finally make some coffee. Now I have to have all the coffee things ready to go straight up, due to the supersonic speed of heatage of the kettle.*** On the kitchen wall perches the air conditioner, which I haven't used yet but am anticipating great things of come January.

Happily this whole one room thing means it should be pretty easy to keep cool.

Towards the back of the place (/room) is a walk-in wardrobe, full of rails and shelves at just the right height to take an eye out. It's still the original icky yellow colour, in the hopes that will motivate me to get around to redoing the shelves to be more functional as well as less pointy and eye-gouging. So far it's working.

A step to the right and we have the bathroom/laundry. It's all PERIODesque, black and white and, well, to be honest a level of funky it's entirely possible I won't live up to. Especially seeing as I've already installed my handpowered washing machine in the shower. But we'll see.

And this brings us to the end of the tour. As you can see, there's stuff spread all over, or from arsehole to breakfast, as my dad would say. I'm getting there, though, with working out where it's going. Dude the fish is well settled and likes the new digs, or more likely, hasn't noticed any difference. I suppose that's pretty much as it should be. A major shift in my internal world, but really, life for everyone else goes on as per usual.

Thanks for coming, though. Would you like a cup of tea? The kettle boils really quickly.

-------------------
* Me.
** To wit: a tomahawk, a broken car mirror, a length of yellow rope, a screwdriver, a snapped tv antenna and some possibly useful lengths of timber.
*** Yes, yes, I might be exaggerating a touch here.

Providence

2007-10-30T16:54:00.000+10:00

There's an element of luck in it all, it's true. Pragmatic as I am, the whatifs come out and whirl around me. Whatif I never was introduced there, never went to that lunch, never got assigned to that project, never took that path. Would I have ended up here?

Here. Where's here? For you, gentle reader, a truth, an admission. I am, right now, quite exactly where I want to be.

I have paint on the soles of my feet. The walls of my house soar above me, clean and fresh and white and... mine. I have fading bruises on my arms and legs, from carrying boxes and awkward shapes up and down steps. Nothing sinister, I bruise easily (future loves, please take note).

So. I own. I possess. My name is on the title of a portion of the world. Now it's all done and dusted, it doesn't seem quite as enormous as it did from the other side. There has been the most delightful level of support from my peeps with this whole thing, from offers of places to crash if the timing was off, to K's stellar effort with helping paint for twelve hours straight on a Saturday (decorative ceilings are nice to look at but when they are 12 foot high and you are significantly shorter than that...), to nabla & K cheerfully and calmly shuttling my accumulated crap over the bridge until it was all shifted, to bottles of Moet with fabulous cards (I took a photo of the card but the cable to make the pictures get to the computer is around here... somewhere...), to cleaning crews turning the dreaded rental clean into a thing of light and laughter, people being so generous with their time and bringing food and champagne and gamely giving the 'DIY thing' a go... Any tendency to be cynical and guarded has been overwhelmed by an embarrassing and very uncool gush of earnest sincerity, a direct result of being so glad to have this wealth of wonderful people in my life. There have been people, here and there, who have responded to the buying-a-house-on-my-own conversation with raised eyebrows and a "that's brave, going it alone" type comment. But you see, I'm not alone. Not even close.

Today I had a sneaky day at home. At my home. Heh. The last few weeks of unsustainable work hours have been crammed in alongside the sweaty frustration of packing and cleaning and the nervous argy-bargy and paperwork avalanche of the BiggestImpulseBuyEver. I was starting to feel compressed, cramped up, not enough space to breathe. So today, with the excuse of the phonefixerperson coming "any time between September and 2011", I took a day to myself. It was bliss. I sat on the grass in the backyard*. I went for a rambling walk around my new suburb and came home with aching calves (it has hills) and some basil in a pot. Brisbane put on a glorious mild sunny day for me, with the breeze from the river telling me I made the right choice.

Back into the maelstrom of mad work, after this short break. I'll try to be around a bit more, now I'm feeling settled, and I'll catch up with those of you I've been neglecting (I'm very fond of you too!).

----------------------
* Common area backyard. So I only sat on a percentage of the grass.

I nearly forgot

2007-10-15T23:54:00.000+10:00

It's Blog Action Day, kids. October 15th (just). Topic is environment. Shocked I'm taking part? No, didn't think so.

Take 10 minutes and watch this, 'kay?

Not dead

2007-10-15T21:33:00.000+10:00

...just busy.

Quick recap.

Some social times. Got some quality time (not enough!) with a darling lady. Wossname hit the big Three-0. The olds blew into town and then out again a few hours later. Brisvegas being a delight with some gorgeous days and lovely storms.

Oh yeah, bought a house.

By house I mean unit.

By unit I mean small, box-shaped thing with door. But mine. All mine.*

Work is busy, busy, busy.

Next person says public service is all flex time and long lunches I'm gonna punch in the mouth.**

We are getting sensible about late nights at work and different people are taking turns bringing in dinner. Very nice for a) nutrition and b) teamwork, but a little worrying on c) making 14 hour days seem normal.

Somewhere in there I need to paint my new house (/unit/box), move into it and tackle the dreaded rental clean.

Anyhoo, more news as it comes to hand. Photos even. If I can scam a camera from somewhere.

------------------
* After settlement, that is. And then roughly 90% belongs to the bank... 10% almost mine perhaps.
** Well, we all know I'm pretty wussy. So I'll probably just think about punching them in the mouth. Still, intention is 9/10 of the law or something, right? Or, wait, maybe the law is 90% perspiration. Or is it 90% crackbook? I can never remember.

(Pedants desist, I know it's possession. Yes ma, I'm looking at you)

Risk

2007-10-03T22:02:00.000+10:00

Was it moving to Brisbane? That was heading towards safety, family, warmth.

Is it signing this mortgage? A step on the path to financial security, they tell me.

That tiny Cessna last week? At least it had two engines.

What about blasting through the streets of South Brisbane on the back of a bike without a full-face helmet? Dad'll give me a lecture for sure... but I got home safely, not a hair out of place (unless you count helmet-hair), and it was a hell of a lot faster than walking.

Is it building a chance meeting into more than it was? Or should be? Reading too much into it because I've forgotten what the signals look like? Is it finding him again (I could, you know, it is theoretically possible) based on--what? Butterflies? How high the potential for floor-melting embarrassment? How high my threshold for loss of dignity?

Take a risk, said D, before he peeled away in a clatter of engine noise.

I'm just not much of a risk-taker, you see. Emo as hell, especially right now, but not so much with the risk.

We'll see. I'll keep you posted.

Or in suspense.

One or the other.

Secrets to living alone #367: Surprise yourself with a nice dinner.

2007-09-26T19:04:00.000+10:00

1. Arrive home from work a little worse for wear.*

2. From the couch, stare in the general direction of the fridge, willing it to magically make a meal.

3. Sigh. Wish you hadn't run out of pappadums. Five of them would make a tasty dinner right now.

4. Decide you are allowed to have whatever looks easiest to cook, bugger nutrition just this once.**

5. Decide you want fried eggplant for dinner.

6. Cut some thick eggplant slices, lightly fry in Olio Bello Chilli and Garlic olive oil.

7. Randomly open the freezer while waiting for the eggplant to cook.

8. Discover a couple of slices of bacon.

9. Add the bacon to the frying pan.

10. Rummage in the fridge and come out with some fresh daikon, a red capsicum, some baby spinach leftover from something and the last of a jar of pickled garlic cloves.

11. Chop into lazy chunks, chuck in a bowl, add a liberal dash of balsamic vinegar.

12. Top with crispy bacon and slices of eggplant, beautifully browned and melty.

13. Enjoy with a glass of leftover red and a slight sense of surprise.

14. Congratulations! You just tricked yourself into making a nice dinner. And there was just enough for one.

------------------------------
* Not a euphemism for drunk.
** Yep, totally, just this one solitary time.

Shameless

2007-09-25T17:54:00.000+10:00

Well, it appears the skills shortage is as bad as they say.

*is quietly bemused*

*gets tickets on self*

Hmm

2007-09-21T20:31:00.000+10:00

I don't know. Now all that maudlin looking-back-looking-forward shit is out of the way, what are we left with? A creaky liver? An 'l' key that is still a touch on the dodgy side? Eight games on the scrabulous application?

I seem to be careening headlong into Adult territory. Pondering the acquisition of property. I'm not too fazed by the big purchase-ness of it all, more the this-means-I'm-staying-put aspect. Odd.

So, anyone want to sell me a house?

Right, then

2007-09-20T19:17:00.000+10:00

Check this out: free online language lessons.

brb, just learning French...

Dissonance

2007-09-18T20:36:00.000+10:00

I'm full up with love and friendship and the novelty of a thick jacket and a beanie in September. Full of the feeling of a newborn baby sleeping on my chest, tiny face nestled in the hollow of my neck, smelling of milk and softness. Full of the stretching of time and place and different realities.

The buzzing in my head isn't helped by driving Alby's car, the exact same make and model as my very own shoebox, for a long weekend in ONC*. I go to Dickson Woollies to get some groceries and halfway down the pasta aisle I have to stop and call Brisvegas to share the warped familiarity of it all. It's a dream. On the surface things are normal but they move when I'm not looking. I get beer and everything is in the same place, the Exact. Same. Place. I walk straight up to the Little Creatures, grab some, and turn to the counter. Where the counter used to be. It's on the other wall now. I reel. The man looks at me, narrows his eyes, asks for ID.

God, this place. An old formal dress, seen better days. It retains some of its lustre, but it fits strangely, too big here, tighter there, fraying on the hem. I love it, or more to the point, the people in it, so I'll keep going back. When I'm here, I eat breakfast at Essen and buy earrings at the Hive and imagine how it would have been if I'd stayed. A pretend life where I live in the Inner North and walk to work across the lake to one of the big federal buildings in the Parliamentary triangle. Or bellwether it out across the border to fight the state fight. Who knows.

I soak up the concentrated friendship mixed with wine and am overwhelmed by it all. Four nights, four beds (none of them were couches; does this mean we're grown up now?), four mornings of complete disorientation. People seeing me say hi like it's the most normal thing before realising it's not. They tolerate my constant state of disconnect but think I'm strange; Alby is my partner in the timewarp that has overtaken us both; I'm more glad than I can say of the mutual understanding. I'm overreacting (it's just place, it's just time, get over it) but my heart is pounding and it's hard to ignore.

Walking out of the airconditioned fug of Brisbane airport into a wave of heat, I smile. It's warm. I'm home. I'm me. I'm now.

---------------------
* Our Nation's Capital

Read this

2007-09-10T19:35:00.000+10:00

Go on. It'll make you feel better about the future of the nation etc.

Quick pick

2007-09-08T18:24:00.000+10:00

Getting ready for a party and I'm inordinately pleased by the heart-shaped icecubes in my bloody mary.

It's been a busy week, full of good things.

Mr Kettle blew into town for the RiverSymposium and we ate delicious food and once again fixed all the world's problems. Two nights running. Ridiculously good crispy duck was eaten in homage to the absent Duckherder.

Something about the Bermuda Triangle created by Mr Kettle, the Duckherder and me makes all things possible. It's a good feeling.

Also, a delightful lunch with an esteemed member of the blogosphere! Once again, the internets do good.

Talked to a week-old baby on the phone. The conversation was a touch one-sided but even I, with my general tendency towards gushingness, was surprised at the level of emotion created by those creaky little noises. I get to see him next week!

It was quite the week of taking stock and attitude re-adjusting. Not that it'd gone too far off track. It's like stockings, needs the occasional tweak to sit right.

Temporary insanity

2007-09-02T20:50:00.000+10:00

You know it's not good when you're already tired and the week hasn't even started yet. I've had this wannabe flu skulking around the back of my throat and in my joints for... well, it feels like forever but it's probably more likely three weeks. I've been going to bed just about as soon as I get home and getting up just before I need to be somewhere and still craving sleep. Random dizzy spells and nausea and a general constant sense of slight disconnection. Giddy is the word, I think. Good times. Makes the days pass quickly though. Wait, it's September? But I only just got my head around July...

My emotions are all out of whack as well. Emotional influenza, perhaps. File under TMI, dear readers, this knowledge: I've stopped taking the Pill for the first time since OK Computer was released. Yeah, I know, right? Let's not dwell on a decade of synthetic hormones (/horse pee, thanks so much, SNF) and move right along to WTF WHERE DID MY SENSE OF PERSPECTIVE GO. Also welcoming back to the Sherd calendar: a whole range of things I had pretty much forgotten about. See, people, science is good, but it can also lull you into thinking the world works a certain way, when in fact the truth is much more crampy and spotty and wanting to cry because your favorite pen ran out and in the next breath laughing hysterically and being in love with the world.

So, anyway, in a nutshell it's like having a gentle coccoon ripped away from your senses. Everything is raw again. I lose my equilibrium so easily. I've also been blushing a lot, for no particular reason. Hot flushes, I suppose. Which has actually been kinda nice during winter. And I get distracted really easily. Although maybe that was always the case, and now I've just got something to blame it on. And I get tangential really quickly. And my l key on my laptop keeps sticking, which is driving me nuts.

It's all good, though. At the moment I seem to be scattered and flustered and red-cheeked and blithering on regular occasions. I have been making more than my usual share of faux pas and fuckups. Poise? Not today, sorry. But when I'm mentally somewhere in the troposphere and about to stab someone in the eye with my now-inkless ex-favourite pen, I have a little trick I've been trying to use: Feeling something strongly Sherd? Experiencing some high emotion? Right there, that's not you. That's the hormones talking. Do you really want to be ruled by your oestrogen levels?

As Jedi mind tricks go it's pretty basic. Still, whatever works, right?

Here's to science. And to finding an equilibrium.

Before

2007-08-29T20:47:00.000+10:00

Someone was telling me about joining a new fitness program. The first day involved a whole lot of various measurements and a before photo.

It's an odd thought. In the instant after the flash goes, you become the before version of who you want to be. This is me, before. This is the person I want to look back and be glad I left behind.

It's all good for your future self, I suppose. People tend to forget where they started and underestimate how far they've come. Since before. Here's a photographic reminder, future self.

It's quite a statement for your present self though. The nadir! The bottom of the curve! The only way is up and away from me!

Sometimes I think the future self needs to be taken down a peg or two. Smug, self-righteous, on time and non-procrastinating future self. My future self exercises regularly, flosses religiously and never hides behind the front door until the neighbour gets around the corner to avoid making polite chitchat, for example. Whereas my present self is all too often found on the couch in underwear* wondering how many pappadums do you need to eat before you can call it dinner?

-----------------------
* sometimes I get distracted at a critical point between changing out of work clothes and into home clothes DON'T JUDGE ME you know you'd do the same, neighbours permitting.

ps

2007-08-24T22:52:00.000+10:00

Yeah, I know. I've been busy.

Also lazy. Maybe, 60% busy, 40% lazy.

Also my computer had to get fdisked. So, let's say, 40% busy, 40% lazy and 20% trying to remember what all my passwords and Firefox extensions were.

Also crackbook. Um, so, 50% facebook, 20% busy, 20% lazy and 10% computer troubles.

Oh, ok, 90% facebook then. Whatevs.

Legitimacy

2007-08-24T21:04:00.001+10:00

I've always craved credibility; if you ever want to guarantee a rise out of me, say you don't believe me. Dismiss my argument. Patronise me. Don't even address the argument, just refuse to even consider that what I am saying could have merit.

I was a touch nervous about some meetings. They were about a tricky subject and the people were more than likely going to be unhappy, if not actually angry. You don't need to worry, people only bother having a go at people who look like they have some influence or authority, a colleague reassured me. They'll think you're there to get the coffee.

Oh, right. Good-oh.

So of course the thought crossed my mind. Crossed it, crossed back, circled a few times on the spot, settled in and got comfortable. Do I look ridiculous in my grown-up clothes? Like a child playing dressups? I can handle that I look young for my age, but do I look plausible? I'm kitted out with the standard-issue pinstripe skirt suit and clip-clop heels. Stockings, a hardcover notebook, business cards. On my way at stupid-early o'clock to catch a plane to a place where I will stand in front of people and purport to represent an organisation, a process, decisions that have been made. This is what it is, this is the reason why, and I need them to believe me. Or at least, to not disbelieve me simply because I look like I couldn't be old enough to know what I'm talking about.

Because I don't know if I'd be able to handle an entire room of people dismissing me. I have a horrible mental image of myself, frothing at the mouth, red in the face, squeaking "LISTEN TO MEEEEEEEE, I KNOW STUFF, LISTEN TO MEEEEE!" Squeaking because in my mental image I'm about 3 foot high. And then someone pats me indulgently on the head and gives me a biscuit. Which makes my head explode.

Anyway, the story has a happy ending. They had no trouble getting angry at me at all. I even had a moment where I was almost glad for the rain of abuse; it meant they realised I was there to do more than get coffee. Phew. I'm a real person (with perhaps some validation issues).

That, or my colleague is a silly troll who has no brain. I dunno, both are equally possible.

Camooweal

2007-08-06T22:08:00.000+10:00

When I was a kid, every couple of years we'd make the big trip Down South for Christmas with the extended fam. We'd usually head down through the centre and loop back up through Queensland, across the Barkly, crossing the border just after Camooweal. For any that haven't heard of it, Camooweal is a small town in far, far western Queensland. Not much more than a blip on the map, but the last stop before Three Ways, and the roadhouse did a mean ham cheese & tomato toasted sandwich.

They had a sign on the wall which said something like "You are now entering the Northern Territory - 30 minutes and 20 years behind Queensland". Ten year old me would get all indignant about the insult to my home. I didn't LIKE Camooweal, they were RUDE and STUPID and as if QUEENSLAND could talk. As if we were behind THEM! So what if we only had two tv channels and a reasonable excuse for not having finished your homework was the electricity going off? Yeah, I was ranty even then. But my vindication would come not long past Camooweal. The further west you headed, the worse the road would get, until it was all potholes and cracks. Then you'd see the sign heralding the border. As you crossed the line, there would be a big thump and then... smooth, straight road stretching out in front of you, thanks to the CLP habit of spending a shitload on infrastructure. Of course, at the time I just thought, "sucked in Camooweal, with your crappy roads and stupid signs! If we're so far behind, how come our roads are so good, huh?"

It's been at least ten years since I've driven the Barkly Highway. Probably more. Still, last week there was a trivia question about the westernmost town in Queensland. Who got that one? Our team did. Then this week there was a Where-Am-I about a town in Queensland with a population of 300 people between Mt Isa and the border. Well. Who got a bottle of wine?

Me. Me and my dusty memories of toasted sandwiches. Who knew childhood ~~stroppiness~~ memories could bring such ~~cheap & nasty wine~~ rich rewards?

What I've been up to

2007-08-02T20:24:00.000+10:00

Out to dinner last night with a friend I haven't seen for a couple of months. We had one of those fast-flowing conversations full of tangents and leaps of logic and gaps that appear when you try to cram all the recent happenings in your lives into the space between drinks and dessert. Big events I changed jobs shoved in cheek-by-jowl with minutiae I had noodles for lunch until the conversation looks like an overfull shopping bag, all funny corners and strange shapes and the spring onions poking out the top.

What have I been up to?

Not much and a lot. In the way of the eye-bleedingly psychedelic wallpaper in my grandparents' old kitchen that I never really noticed until years later in photos, life has a way of settling into familiar patterns and fading into the background. I think this is why people lose touch - you stop wanting to send the same news over and over. The first time has a touch of novelty: new city! new job! new life! but as soon as that fades, it's hard to match the initial excitement. You become bored with telling your own story. Same city. Same job. Same life. It's not bad, but it falls below the threshold of news and into the strange limbo of trivial detail. Not worth telling people about, you think. But as time passes, the point where trivia gains the critical mass to become actual news gets higher and higher, until you need some major event to find a reason to make contact again.

I've decided that's part of the reason I find facebook so interesting. It puts you back in touch with the smaller details, the tiny events that don't seem worth relating, but all together are the stuff of peoples' lives. Or maybe, the glue that connects people. I'm not going to send you an email to tell you that I'm roasting some pumpkin... but I'll put it in my status.

So what I have been up to? I went to a fete at a school and ate fried noodles and bought Nemureru Mori on VCD for five bucks; I got a fish whose name I'm still undecided on*; I danced to Bloc Party and Clap Your Hands Say Yeah at Ric's and felt my age; I caught the tummy bug going around and lost two kilos; I went out to dinner in the Valley; I went out to dinner in West End; I drank beer; I put the two kilos back on; my team won trivia and got a $60 bar tab for our troubles; a friend told me she's late but unsure and I'm full-to-bursting with waiting for news; I got a new mobile phone and I'm a little bit in love with it; I went to work and read things and said things and at one point I got really angry and swore a lot (mostly in my head but occasionally out loud), and then I got over it; I bought 4 adorable cupcakes from the gorgeous girl at the West End Markets and I took them to the airport to have coffee in transit with my clever Law Talking Grrl; I did a little dance in the front room because Leon the Lime is about to flower, and Jorge the Jalapeno is so laden with fruit his branches are bending; I worried that naming my plants is evidence of early-onset lunacy; I went on a roast pumpkin and eggplant bender...

It's trivial. It's life. What have you been up to?

-----------------------------
* He's small and blue. I've been calling him Dude so far, so maybe Lebowski could be his proper name. Or maybe William Wallace, because I gave him freedom from a tiny plastic cup. Fido is another contender, because really I wanted a dog. Suggestions welcome.

Is it wrong to wish on space hardware

2007-07-24T20:54:00.000+10:00

I long ago reconciled myself to the gutting idea that there is no simple way to avoid the need for an income to survive in the world. Now it's about the faintly ridiculous juxtaposition of meaning in life and earning enough to keep body and soul together.

I never thought public servant as the way to do this. It's the family business, you know, we've been clerks and bureaucrats since the Magna Carta*, but I never thought I'd carry on the administrative tradition. Still, when you've been brought up on a steady diet of community outcomes and ethics principles, trying to work in the private sector gives you hives. It's completely nerdy and naive to admit it, but I love that sense of the greater good they feed you when you are part of the government machine. I'm the loser ranting about transparency and accountability and public good. I believe in that shit. I really do. Not that I'm the only one. But I'm fucking obnoxious about it. Because if you lose sight of that, you may as well go and work somewhere where it's all about profit margins, right?

But.

On days like today, when I've been dashing myself against the cliffs of the bureaucracy, I wonder if it's just the opiate of the sector. It's as though my work is split in two. There's the part I enjoy, where I'm paid to think about ways we can do things to improve people's lives, and then there's the part where I have to deal with the higher-level power struggles and manoeuvring that seem the antithesis of anything to do with community outcomes.

My response seesaws between either craving that level of power so I can have greater control, or wanting to wash my hands of the whole shebang. In reality, I just suck it up and get on with my day, with perhaps the occasional vent all over empathetic friends (ta, MsG).

Lan and I have covered this ground before in many sober and wine-filled conversations: how to reconcile working within a flawed system? And the answer she gives me: it's a balance between trying to change the system and recognising that you have to live (and work) in the system. Or another view, as my pa, who is prone to zen-like moments, says, it's better to have the good people doing the bad jobs than the bad people doing the bad jobs.

I don't see what I'm doing as the bad job. Compared to the people I know battling away for a government whose ideology is anathema to theirs, I'm practically in paradise. And am I the good people? Well, it's all a bit subjective, isn't it? I work hard and I believe there is more to life than the profit motive. Take that as you will.

My oblique, dooce-aware rant is... I dunno. Perhaps I'm not cut out for this (public service) life. Perhaps I need to lose some innocence, stop trying to see it as the thing it can be and see it as the thing it is. Play the game a bit more.

Ah, but I'm not quite ready to let go of the dream. I believe in it, and it keeps me in beer and skittles. Small men with limited imaginations and excessive personal ambitions are not enough to get me down just yet.

image thanks to waitless
---------------------------------------------
* or 1947, my grasp of history's never been that great

My latest addiction

2007-07-18T21:06:00.000+10:00

Thanks to Oz I've spent far too long mucking about at Fantasy Health Minister.

It's confirmed what I always knew, deep down. I'd be an awesome minister, except for the occasional penchant for pissing off the private sector.

Which is part of the fun, really.

Monday musings

2007-07-16T19:50:00.000+10:00

When the nice nurses at the blood bank (you should go, really, it's no big deal and there's cheese and bikkies and coffee afterwards, go on, every blood donation generates as much karma as a new post on cuteoverload), erm, where was I? Too many parentheses... oh yes, when the nice nurses at the blood bank said this morning, "Make sure you have plenty of liquids today," I don't know that they meant wine, necessarily. But I seem to have entered the strange alternate universe of the 5 o'clock meeting, as in, "we're meeting at 5, is that ok?" and it's assumed that you are, in fact, ok with that. And when one finishes a 5 o'clock meeting, that just happened to run on from a 4:30 meeting, and after a day of running around and doing something to do with significant milestones... well, a glass or two of wine doesn't go astray in those circumstances.

So, here we are, I've piked on going to the pub because the wine made me sleepy, and truth be told I'm about 20 minutes away from going to bed. The news has just finished. And it's MONDAY.

*sigh*

This is why I will never be an executive. No stamina.

************************

That Guy, in one of his infrequent posts that should really be more frequent I don't care how much time facebook and myspace are taking out of his busy lifestyle, had a new post recently. For those who can't be bothered to make with the click, it basically says Yo bitches, I am a way cool jazz musician what lives in London blah blah my life is like some sort of novel innit?

What caught my eye was this:

She idly casts a hand down his shirt and into the small of his back and I think yeah, I remember that. I remember what that was like, from now years ago, when you're so into someone, like the rest of the world doesn't exist, or if it does then it exists just for you two, to present you with a park to frolic in, a movie to see....it's not the dry touch of someone you're trying to make like you, someone you're trying to force into some sort of relationship. It just happens, of its own accord, and there's nothing you want to do to stop it.

But do I miss it? If I did miss it that much then wouldn't I seriously do something about it?

Wouldn't I, indeed. Take note, world. I love ya guts, but really, back the fuck off.

***************************

A weekend with the Baach... My grandfather was once a butcher; the knives in his house were always sharp. All the Baach's knives have become blunt so I sat and sharpened them as we drank tea and gossiped about people I don't know. I lifted and carried and cleaned and hammered and generally acted as adult grandchildren should. We watched Harry Potter and made pickles. When I went to sleep in the single bed in the spare room, watched over by a creepy lavender-scented ceramic cherub, I couldn't quite believe I was any older than eleven.

Finding the rhythm

2007-07-12T20:56:00.000+10:00

The other night I forgot to set my alarm. In the morning I drifted out of sleep slowly, calmly, with light shining through the windows and split-second belief it was Saturday. It wasn't Saturday, of course, so I got up and went to work. But I wasn't late, because I woke up naturally at 7am.

I'm not a morning person. I'm not an evening person, either. What I am is a person who needs to sleep somewhere between eight and ten hours. Less than this and I am cranky and fractured. More than this and I am lethargic and dull. And that sleep needs to happen at roughly the same time each day.

It's taken me a while to work this out - for the longest time I never felt fully slept. I'd always want more sleep, and I'd always be tired, except when I went to bed - then I'd be exhausted but wide awake. It was a habit that began when I was a teenager but was at its worst when I was a student and doing shift work, drinking a lot of coffee. A lot. No, really, a lot.

One day I was told in stern doctor words that my heart, which is a teensy bit on the bolshie side, would be less mutinous if I cut down on the caffeine and paid attention to the rhythm part of the circadian dealio. Did I listen? Fuck no. Not at the time. Well, I did cut back on the caffeine - it was that or feel like a small mule was kicking me in the chest all day - but regular sleeping patterns were something that old people had. Bed at ten? 10am the next morning, maybe.

So I felt tired for a few more years. Especially when I started working full time but still staying up late. Finally it clicked, somewhere in my brain, that what I needed to do was not to sleep more but sleep earlier. Fastforward a bit (mostly to skip over false starts and backsliding - just imagine some sort of montage of me slowly getting my sleep jive happening) and now, most nights, I try to be in bed by ten... thirty, or thereabouts, and asleep not long after. And if I'm not, I know that I'll be tired and cranky the next day.*

A few realisations have come out of this.

Habits can be changed the same way they are acquired - a little at a time.

I can no longer stay out until dawn.

I don't care that I can no longer stay out until dawn.

I am now that person who can wake up naturally at 7am.

Huh. How about that.

It feels weird.

Not bad. Just weird.

---------------------------
* Of course, as any recovered insomniac can tell you, knowing that you need to go to sleep in order to get up and function is about as good for helping sleep as a triple espresso just before bed. So the other part of that is accepting that being tired and cranky for a day is not the end of the world. And trying not to drink lots of coffee to get over the tired.

Perspective and middle distance

2007-07-10T21:57:00.000+10:00

I had a little memory flashback today. We were talking about regional and remote communities, distance, the Outback as a myth/idea/dream, things of that ilk.

For new players, I spent my childhood in a patch of dust at the end of a dirt road in the Top End.* For very new players, the Top End is the top bit of the Northern Territory. We like to keep things simple there.

My flashback was about my own remote community experience. That is, when I first moved down South for uni (note: for Territorians, 'down South' means pretty much anywhere else in Australia), I had a call from Centrelink, to tell me I was eligible for some sort of special allowance because I was from a "remote area".** My first thought was that they had the wrong person - I know Sherdie seems like quite the unusual moniker, but I sometimes go by another, very common, name, and there's a surprising number of us with the same first name and surname out there. Because, of course, I wasn't from a remote area. Not even close. Sure it was fifty kilometres to town, but that was a quick half hour jaunt. It was hardly like we lived somewhere inaccessible in the Wet when the creeks came up. I mean, by the time I finished school they'd even tarred our road! Remote was those places further out, where you had to cross creeks full of crocs and you could get Imparja without a satellite dish.

But it was me they wanted. And that's when I started to realise something else. Distance is different down South. Meeting the other teenaged newbies fronting up at uni ressies, a standard conversation starter was home towns.

Me: Where are you from?

Other newbie: Grafton.

Me: Where's that then?

ON: Up near Queensland, about 10 hours drive.

Me: Oh, that's nice, not too far, is it? Will you go home for long weekends and stuff?

ON: *stares*

ON: ...are you taking the piss?

Me: What?

ON: It's near Queensland. Ten. Hours.

Me: Er... so that means you will go home for long weekends?

ON: What?

Me: *confusion*

ON: Well, how long does it take to drive to your town?

Me: You can do it in four days, if you push it, a bit longer if you don't want to drive at night in case of running into the wildlife.

*crickets*

Then we got drunk and all was well, but it made me realise something. I viewed the world through a slightly different lens than many of the people around me. Not better, or worse, but definitely different. If a place was within a days' drive, it was close. Within two days, it was reasonable. Any temperature below 25 degrees was cold, and you told the weather by the calendar: June, dry. November, humid. January, pouring rain.

I realised how my perspective influenced my judgements, my perceptions, my expectations. I also saw that other people were interpreting the world through their own filters of experience and understanding, and even with the same, seemingly simple information, they wouldn't necessarily arrive at the same conclusion as me. Of course ten hours is close. It's just common sense. Of course ten hours is a long way. It's just common sense.

There's a whole range of things that seem to be common sense, an obvious conclusion, to every individual. Things we don't bother to think about because they are so glaringly simple and clear-cut. Our families, our upbringing, our experiences, any number of things quietly shape and form our thinking. Of course it's polite to eat soup with a spoon. Of course it's polite to drink soup straight from the bowl. Blowing your nose instead of sniffling? Only polite! Disgusting and shows a lack of restraint! On other levels: Of course the environment should be protected. Of course the environment is there for our use. Women are equal to/the property of men. Refugees should be helped/suspected. Education is a right/privilege. The list is endless.

Loosely wrought, then, it's culture I'm talking about. People in a culture, as a general rule, see the world through the lens of that culture. If we all went around questioning every single cultural norm we came across, we'd barely do anything else. But a level of understanding can be useful, and if nothing else, can reduce the number of awkward pauses and miscommunications in conversation. Oh, my understanding of normal and acceptable is this, and yours is that. Righto. You can move forward from there, and if you're lucky, not get bogged down in the I'm-right-no-I'm-right quicksand. Or you can come back to that later, if that floats your boat, but at least you'll know you're dealing with different understandings of right and wrong, not a (to you) clear, obvious right and a (to them) clear, obvious wrong. And you'll know that sometimes, your idea of remoteness is someone else's idea of the local neighbourhood.

------------------------
* aka Paradise.
** This is absolutely true. Centrelink called me to offer me money. This is how you can tell I started uni many years ago.

Digitising the funk

2007-07-09T22:13:00.000+10:00

So-hot-right-now indie gamer Farbs of Farbs.org fame has released his latest offering, Polychromatic Funk Monkey. The game is cute, addictive and suitably tricked out with the clever little Farbs touches that make the kids go wild.

Go try it out. Gorn. Git.

Tip: the telefunker is the '0' button. If you knew that already, then clearly you can read better than me.

Facebook explosion

2007-07-04T18:36:00.000+10:00

What happened? Did some switch get thrown? Was there a subliminal marketing campaign or was it just critical mass? Why is everyone suddenly talking about facebook?

Anyway, yes, one of the ~~addicted~~ converted now. What tipped me over the edge? A combination of the LOLcats application and friending a guy I haven't seen for more than a decade.

I've spent too many hours spent surfing the 'book networks, as they say.* So far I haven't turned down any actual (you know, as in, real) social engagements due to the 'book addiction, but I have rushed to my laptop with unseemly haste at the end of the day to see what everyone's been up to. You're all so darn interesting, with your "complicated" relationships and sheep-throwing antics and all.

Of course, it gets a little close to home when you discover that the girl you went to uni with knows the guy who works down the hallway and he's out on facebook but not in the workplace, and he's also friends with that other guy you briefly dated, and you previously had no idea that any of them would have known each other at all.

Note to self: no facebook profile is an island.

---------------------------------
* I made that up. I don't know what they say. Unless it involves hasing a cheezburger. I'm all over that.

Pressing issues

2007-07-03T20:33:00.000+10:00

By popular demand, here's how to make tofu.

You need:
2l soy milk
10g nigari (magnesium chloride, or in other words, a type of salt)

- Boil the milk for 5-10 minutes to sterilise (die, bacteria, die!).

- Let it cool for a bit, say, 5 minutes.

- Dissolve the nigari in a cup of warm water. Note: don't taste the nigari "just to see". It tastes AWFUL. No, really, don't. Just take my word for it.

- Slowly add the nigari to the milk, stirring gently between each batch.

- When it starts to get chunky, stop adding the nigari.

- Make a cup of tea and go see what the chooks are up to (approx 15 minutes).

- When you come back, the curds will have separated and gone to the bottom, and the rest of the liquid will be relatively clear. If this hasn't happened, add a bit more nigari and make another cup of tea.

- Tip the curds into some sort of rigid container with some holes in the side and bottom, that you've lined with cheesecloth, muslin or a clean chux cloth. I use my totally awesome tofu press which looks a bit like this:
(pic)
but in a pinch I'd use the same strainer and cloth in a bowl setup I use for making labna.

- Fold the cloth over the top of the tofu - avoid having too many wrinkles in the cloth if having a smooth block is important to you.

- Using the nifty lid of your tofu press, or whatever else is handy, put a weight on the top of the block to squeeze out the water. Depending on how hard you want your end product to be, add more or less weight and leave it for shorter or longer. For example, with a half-empty 1L bottle of ~~gin~~ water on top of the press, left for 30 min, it will be about as hard as the "firm" tofu you get at the supermarket.

- Unmould the tofu into some cold water. You can "wash" the tofu if you want by slowly running water into the container and letting it overflow into the sink for 10-20 minutes. In these water-challenged times I couldn't bring myself to do that, so I just changed the water in the container 3 times in the hour after I unmoulded the block.

Yum!

Looking for more info? Who knew there were so many different types of tofu or that I wasn't just imagining that Australian tofu tastes different? Wiki, that's who. And here's the best recipe I've seen on the net. Because I understand that not everyone can have their own small Japanese girl to instruct them. I'm nice like that.

Intro-

2007-07-01T19:28:00.000+10:00

Where did I go? Into my head, for a bit.

Eri breezed into town today, handing me delicious green tea and umeboshi and a tofu press before she collapsed into sleep on the couch. I've spent the afternoon pottering quietly around talking to my plants and making things. Food, mostly. Tofu, yogurt, rice, pasta sauce. Drank beautiful green tea, sitting in the sun in the front room.

Back now, mostly.

Warmth

2007-06-20T19:49:00.000+10:00

It's cold today. Proper jacket-wearing cold. Not only is the fan off, the heater is ON. Scarves. Gloves. That glorious Brisvegas tradition of the full length coat and thongs.

In the 'berra, because there's a range of types of coldness, people have a range of warm clothes. It's cold for so much of the year, and so cold for some of that, you can't really get away with just having whatever. Here, there are three modes of temperature during the year: really hot, normal and cold. As between really hot and normal there's a slight difference in the amount of bare skin showing. When it turns to cold, you turn to the warm thing you own (note: singular). Sometimes this is a light cotton jacket. Sometimes it may be a flanno. From time to time, it's a puffy jacket. Occasionally, a blanket. And that's what you wear when it's cold. Regardless of the level of cold.

Coldness also seems to bring people together, maybe because it's a bit unusual. Random weather chats were the order of the day. Even surly-dude-I-run-into-in-the-kitchen had a chat about it. Never mind the Hurley decision, or the Melbourne shooting, there was only one hot topic of the day do you see what I did there?

What's my point? Stay warm, kids.

Yes, I am a fucking hippie

2007-06-18T19:25:00.000+10:00

So, new hair, generally positive reactions. Hooray. I've discovered that any shred of self-confidence I have evaporates in the face of discussions about my personal appearance. I blushed a lot today. A. Lot.

Anyway, enough about me, let's talk about me now.

Here's this thing I saw somewhere. I can't decide how I feel about it. Ladeez and gennlemen, I present: the electric compost maker. Yes, I am not kidding.
Look, here's a pretty picture to show you how it works...

I'm intrigued by the reactor and the computer, although it does put me in mind of that ridiculous Dove ad where the highly scientific tiny blue beads cure cancer and then go on a mission to Mars (or something, because that's science, ya know).

Anyway, I'm torn. You all know how I feel about compost. It's A Good Thing. People sometimes don't want to do it because it's stinky, or they don't have the room or the inclination. This solves many of those problems, potentially encouraging people who otherwise wouldn't (and who have a spare few hundred bucks or so) to divert their organic waste from the general waste stream, and to turn that organic waste into a resource. See? Good Thing.

It weirds me out because I think compost should look more like the Fraggle Rock version...

...and the idea of a machine for composting seems the antithesis of the organic nature of the process itself. But, thinking about it, we have machines for all sorts of other things, with far less benefit to the world. I myself have two small pieces of metal that heat up and iron my hair straight. That's pretty random and useless. And really, having a machine that overcomes many of the objections people have to composting is not in the same league as, say, a plug-in watering can to oxygenate the water for your indoor plants.

So, I guess I come down on the side of good with this one.

Still kinda weird though. I think I'll stick to my worm farm for now.

Sunday ramblings #2

2007-06-17T20:06:00.000+10:00

I'm so home-esque right now. Dinner was a homemade (by the Baach) sausage roll with homemade (by nabla) tomato relish and a homegrown (by me) salad*. Apparently it runs in the family.

When the Baach was telling us about the sausage roll, she couldn't remember the word for 'lamb'. She said, "you know, the little cute one". This is how I will refer to lamb from here on in.

The Duck Herder has been bitten by the blogging bug. If you want to hear about the trials and tribulations of having a full scale farm on a quarter-acre block (and also, regular Nefley updates, apparently), head on over. We love it.

Tomorrow I have to go to work, and people are going to comment on my new hair. I said to the hairdresser: "kinda like that, but whatever you think is best". And I like it. I do. It's just going to take some getting used to. There's a lot less at the back than there used to be. And a lot less on the sides. Well, a lot less all over, really. Not as short as it used to be, all those years ago... but definitely not long.

That's all I got. I'm sleepy.

------------------------
* I am of the belief that if there is at least one ingredient in the dish that is homegrown, then the whole thing can be called homegrown.

Chicken love

2007-06-13T20:35:00.000+10:00

You lot are lovely, aren't you? I'm not suffering from any unrequited love* at the moment, it just happened to be on my mind. But thanks.

In other love/silkie chicken news, here's a Nefley update/upclose:

And Nefley in love, with Mr Byron Buttercup, as promised by the Duckherder:

------------------
* John Cusack aside, that is.

Unrequited love sucks

2007-06-12T17:17:00.000+10:00

There was a guy wandering around on Saturday wearing a homemade shirt saying "unrequited love sucks".* He told us that it was all good; he was over the unrequited love now. We all agreed that regardless of being over it, it was still a true statement - unrequited love does suck. Big time.

The thing about it is, it sucks for everyone. For the unrequiter, it's all tormented hope and pointless longing and interpretation and re-interpretation of nuances and meanings in words or gestures. Meanwhile, the unrequitee, once aware of the other's desire, gets to feel some strange species of guilt and awkwardness, as well as interpretation and re-interpretation of nuances and meanings in words or gestures. And both perform a delicate dance on the eggshells of their friendship, or pride, or dignity, or something.

Exhausting all round, really.

Anyway, at the risk of getting a touch High Fidelity**, I've put together my Top Five Unrequited Love Songs.*** Feel free to add.

Ani Difranco - Untouchable Face
Falling Joys - Lock It
~~Jen Cloher - Longing Song~~
Magic Dirt - All My Crushes
Holly Throsby - Come Visit
Chris Isaak - Wicked Game

----------------------
* J says: That's probably the best pickup shirt that guy's ever worn. It's the tshirt equivalent of carrying a puppy.
** Now there's an unrequited love I've been carrying around for a long time: John Cusack.
*** I make no apologies for the over-representation of female singer-songwriters in the list.

Pauhaus Festival: the kids are ok

2007-06-11T22:01:00.000+10:00

I had a lovely time on Saturday, thanks for asking. I wandered down to the newly flashed-up Brisbane Powerhouse for the Pauhaus Festival. Me, my lovely friend J, and about a billion teenagers in fluorescent shirts and canvas sneakers. Feel old? Us? Up to a point. That point being when the special red wristband let us buy wine. I'll just cover some of the highlights, because otherwise we'll be here all night.

The venue was great. I wasn't sure how an indoor festival would go, but as the day dawned cold* and windy, it was a definite plus. The layout was great, with a stage in the Turbine Hall, a stage in the Theatre, and the Visy Theatre downstairs making three. My ageing bones also very much liked being able to take my drink, purchased at one of the many bars, out to the deck and sit and watch the boats cruise down the river. As is the case with these things, we had a general plan and then deviated from that when and where we felt like it, wandering between the three stages and following our ears/thirst for more wine.

The Visy Theatre was small, dark and intimate. The only problem was the smallness and intimacy meant that later on in the evening, a long line of people waiting to get in snaked out of the door and around the foyer, meaning that Dave McCormack and Ed Kuepper were out of reach. Such is the luck of the festival, I suppose. Making up for that, the two acts we saw in there, Red Ghost and Whitley, were both just amazing. Slide your eyes a touch to the right and you'll see I've already started obsessively listening to Red Ghost's EP on repeat. It's that good. If I hadn't spent all my merch money on wine I would've bought Whitley's EP too. If you have any sort of hankering at all for people singing beautiful lyrics in gorgeous voices to well played guitars, give both of them a listen.

On the big stages, let's see.

Operator Please, apart from making us wonder what the hell we were doing when we were that age (certainly not on stage playing killer pop songs, that's for sure), were as good as the hype suggests. Go see them. You won't regret it. You may feel a touch old. But you won't regret it.

Dappled Cities Fly were another fresh-faced group with a great sound, and certainly made me glad I'd given up the line for Dave to see them. Not least because I've been listening to their latest album on repeat for a couple of months now.

The Panics were tops. Bliss, even. This may be because I have been waiting to see them again since forever, but they hardly ever tour, or if they do it's supporting famous people so a poor girl can't even get a ticket. At this point I should thank J, who didn't mind that I refused to move, talk, or do anything but listen in rapture while they played. I'm not too sure what it is about their twangy music making that brings me such delight. But it does. So there.

Expatriate also didn't disappoint, and by the end of their set had the entire theatre, including bar staff, making the floor move - literally.

To finish the night off, the Grates did what the Grates do so well. I know this style of jumpyhappymusic is not to everyone's taste, but it is to mine. And much of the rest of the crowd, if the level of jumpyhappy in the room was anything to go by. They monstered it, completely, sang a couple of new songs, did plenty of old ones, made the guy next to me so happy he couldn't contain his joy and felt the need to grin maniacally and randomly hug people in his vicinity, causing a kind of contagious grinquake in the immediate area.

And then, at the end of the evening, we sat at the bus stop with some teenagers and waited for the bus. Then we realised a benefit of not being a teenager anymore is choosing when to act your age... and caught a cab.

----------------------------
* Er, Brisbane's version of cold, that is. It was somewhere in the high teens. Maybe low twenties. Definitely scarf and jacket weather. SHUT UP IT IS SO.

Short, sweet

2007-06-07T19:44:00.000+10:00

So, boo-hoo, work's been really busy and I think I'm starting to fray a bit around the edges.

I mentioned my mad policy skillz the other day.

File under: ways to get strange looks from your co-workers.

I also mentioned telecommuting to my boss. She looked at me like I was an alien from the planet Intartube.

File under: when technology meets reality.

But this weekend I'm off to the Pauhaus Festival. It will be excellent. I plan to eat corn on the cob and fall in love with the Panics again.

And it's a long weekend!* First person to tell me their cool plans gets an imaginary fish called Cunty.

--------------------------
* Yeah, yeah, Eastern states only, I got it.

Haiku for a Brisbane winter night

2007-06-05T21:46:00.000+10:00

Work til late, dark, rain
pouring down, no umbrella.
Stuff this. Taxi home.

Demonstrated high-level skills in nothing in particular

2007-06-04T21:59:00.000+10:00

I'm trying to write one of those annoying application things and it's annoying me. I had all weekend to do it, but instead it's due tomorrow and I'm doing it now. Demonstrated this. Analytical that. Blah fucking blah. Except I'm not doing it now, clearly, because at this point anything is more enticing so here I am looking into the little beige square and following the words to the end of the line.

Most annoyingly (annoyingest?) I don't really want the job I'm writing the application for, and I am certain I won't get it, as I'm not really qualified for it and would be a little concerned about the reality of the skills shortage if I were to be offered it, but I'm writing this application anyway due to a complex set of circumstances that is something to do with keeping options open and something else to do with a sort of strange career trajectory taking place through the looking glass so I need to put the application in to signal some sort of intention or ambition even though everyone involved knows I am an ambitious little upstart already and why people can't have a normal conversation about these things is beyond me, but not as much as using the occasional full stop seems to be.

*takes a breath*

Now this here from the world of mskp is making my day bright. ~~Probably~~ definitely NSFW. Still. If everything were safe for work, I'd never have named my pet fish Cunty McCunt.*

--------------------
* Imaginary pet fish. My flat's too small for pets.

Songbirds

2007-06-04T10:21:00.000+10:00

Dear World,

I need to tell you that I stayed at Songbirds Rainforest Retreat and it was sublime.

I had the most divine dinner I have ever had at the restaurant. The service was perfect, and I am a complete snob when it comes to service. Everything we ate was delicious (oh! the steak!), and we ate a lot more than I ever thought possible. The kitchen sent out extra dishes to taste because it was very important that we tasted them or our lives would not be complete.

They were right.

They also showed a keen understanding of the dessert stomach phenomenon by arranging something "small and light" for us to have when we said we were too full for dessert:

We managed to polish most of it off.

The villa was gorgeous, the bed enormous, the possum rug luxurious in the extreme. In the morning, I did yoga on the verandah overlooking the rainforest, accompanied by the sound of whipbirds. There was a rainforest walk and an organic vegie patch and ducks.

In short, my kind of heaven.

lots of love,
Sherd.

ps: a few more pics over here.

Sunday afternoon ramblings

2007-06-04T09:47:00.000+10:00

It's turning cooler in Brisvegas, cool enough to think about wearing something other than shorts and tshirts. So I've dug out my h4wt knee-high brown and pink (no sheep were harmed in the making of these) uggies to pair with the aforementioned shorts and tshirt. It's a good look, if I do say so myself. Now the sun is going down I might need to find the jumper my ma knitted as well. It's grey and comfy and the arms are longer than the torso. Sweet.

I've spent the day pottering around my little abode, cleaning, doing yoga, drinking cups of tea, desiring handbags on etsy, rearranging the loungeroom, what Alby calls nesting. Saying hello to my space. Hi, walls. Hi, floor. How's it going? Hi, windows. Watching the light come through the pebbled glass. Breathing.

In a bit I'm going off to dinner at a friend's house, good company, good food, good wine. Bright light and laughter.

A good day.

********************

It's June. I have a gift for stating the obvious. April-May was a blur of events and happenings. June is for reflection, and a few decisions. Consolidate or move on. Rent or buy. Commit or leave. Long or short.

That last one's mostly about hairstyle. Feel free to provide advice on that score.

********************

When Eri left for Japan, it was ridiculous how itchy my feet got at the airport. Travel, what are you waiting for, she said. Soon, I told her.

Just after she got to Brisvegas, we spent an afternoon looking through our old high school photos, gossiping about the people in them, being horrified at our hair/pimples/clothes, discovering we both had a secret crush on the same boy in the year above ours. It all felt so long ago and caused a continuing discussion loosely connected to this idea of becoming adults.

It's a bit much for a Sunday arvo, really, to rehash conversations that happened towards the end of a bottle of wine. Our conclusions were stunningly unoriginal in any case, but I'll thank you to remember we are still (just) in the prime of our youth and to give us the benefit of the whatever. Life is short, and you only get one chance at it. Being an adult is being responsible for yourself and your own actions. The universe owes you nothing. Love is important, but so is timing of love. And so on until the end of the second bottle, where you will find either sleep or bad renditions of Spitz songs.

Ai shiteeeruuuu no hiiiibiiiikiiii dake de
tsuyokuuuuu nareeeeeruuuu ki ga shita yo....

Any minute now

2007-05-31T16:24:00.000+10:00

Really. Any minute now I'll have time to blog.

Any minute now, if now were, say, next week.

In the mean time, check out where I'm going this weekend.

Normal transmission will resume soon/er rather than later.

Malware

2007-05-26T03:17:00.000+10:00

I don't know which thought is scarier.

That Mal's charging about unchecked coming up with this stuff himself.

Or that his advisors actually think this is a good thing to say.

On a side note, I really should have learnt by now not to read the comments on news.com.

*despairs for the future of the nation*

UPDATE: Mangoman is wise and tells us all not to worry about the stupid people.

Gyoza party

2007-05-23T12:56:00.000+10:00

Old friend Eri is staying with me. Today she made this for dinner:

Actually, I nicked the picture from here but it's pretty close to what it looked like. Except I don't own an ugly plate like that.

Jealous?

Yeah, it's pretty cool being me.

On belonging

2007-05-19T16:47:00.000+10:00

I was headed for an early night tonight; busy tired week and an early airport trip tomorrow morning had me snuggled up by 9. But the opening of the Paniyiri Festival outside my window has other ideas, and who am I to argue with that? It seems fitting to have a Greek festival going on given the topic tonight.

So we're going to have a citizenship test? Stone the flamin' crows etc. I took the sample one, did alright, PHEW, LUCKY. Can stay. Even if I mucked up the Judaeo-Christian tradition one. Sorry Kev, I is a pinko hippie atheist or whatever.

I had a quick look at the original discussion paper and one thing that struck me was this idea that "prospective Australian citizens" need to show a commitment to Australian values. What they ~~decided and are pretending to consult on~~ propose is for the PACs to sign something, after passing The Test, but before taking that little Oath thingo. The signing would properly show they knew what a big deal it was to move from a PAC to an AC. Because there's nothing really in the solemn vow that person makes in becoming a citizen to show they understand the commitment they are making. All they say is:

From this time forward,
I pledge my loyalty to Australia and its people
whose democratic beliefs I share,
whose rights and liberties I respect, and
whose laws I will uphold and obey.

Oh, I see.

Anyway, I suppose that's really a bit nit-picky, isn't it? All the guvmint's trying to do is make sure that the people with cultures, traditions and languages most similar to the Caucasian Judaeo-Christian (there you go Kev) mainstream are the ones most likely to have the privilege of citizenship bestowed upon them. Because that will make sure they become active members of Australian society and can integrate and participate fully and ensure we have a vibrant and modern culture.

Well, thank some fucking deity for that. I'm always saying that the biggest problem with migrants is how inactive they are and the blandness they bring to mainstream culture. And that whole deal with exposure to other cultures leading to greater tolerance as well as greater respect for your own... well I always knew that was a load of bollocks.

Seriously though, tickle me with a pink paper napkin and call me naive, but would a way to assure integration and participation by all citizens, both born and pledged, be to have some sort of policy that promoted mutual understanding and respect for cultural differences? That way, all citizens, no matter what their cultural background, regardless of whether they fled here or flew first class, could feel equally valued and encouraged to contribute to a vision of a shared, accepting nation. A national identity built on something other than an anachronistic equivalence of nation with race (or cricket). Some sort of policy of pluralism, many cultures existing together in an environment of tolerance of diversity, an -ism of multiple cultures...

Ah, forget it. It'd probably never work.

Flat gardens

2007-05-16T13:15:00.000+10:00

Once upon a time, there was a girl. She lived in a big, open space, where the air was so warm and the sun so shiny, all a seed needed to grow was a smile and a sprinkle of dirt. There were chickens, and trees laden with tropical fruits, and all manner of permaculture happiness.

The girl grew up and moved to a freezer. She discovered it was possible, but not easy, to grow things in a freezer, especially after she'd figured out what this "frost" thing was and how these "seasons" worked. She even cultivated a monster pumpkin vine, and in a fit of curiosity, let it grow until it eventually climbed over the nectarine tree, tried to eat the house, and had to be fought back with fire and axes.

Then the girl moved to a place with no garden. For a while, she was confused. For a while, she even threw her organic waste in the normal rubbish bin. There seemed no point if there was no soil. Downcast, disconsolate, she turned to the intertubes.

And lo, the intertubes did come up with the goods.

Kinda want (I see indoor mowing. With scissors.)

Sorta want (I don't think pumpkins would fit)

An aerogarden? Maybe (where would the worms go?)

Knock out all the walls, I'm set (maybe just the internal walls).

Green bean screen (my birthday's in December).

The reality:

That's my state

2007-05-15T11:57:00.000+10:00

More than three-quarters of the Queenslanders who were told by police they were caught up in overseas investment scams continued sending money overseas, fraud investigators say.

Six degrees of Sherd

2007-05-15T11:49:00.000+10:00

Last year a friend of K's, living in Canberra, started dating a boy called Squinky. Given that Squinky is something of an unusual name, and Canberra not that big a place, K thought I might know who he was. In one of those world-too-small twists, not only did I know him (and worked with him), Squinky is also Miff's little brother. So we coordinated in secret with Miff and sent text messages while they were on a date and everyone was very confused/amused/tolerant of our idiocy.

What are the odds that my Brisvegas brother's partner's best friend would date my Canberra good friend's little brother? Shake your head and write it off to coincidence.

I became friends with Bec through Gretsky, who introduced us last year after Bec moved to Brisvegas with her partner, Sam. Bec and Gretsky are part of a group of friends who worked together in one of those monolithic federal departments scattered around the Parliamentary Triangle. One Monday, Bec came to coffee sporting an engagement ring and an enormous grin and told me the lovely story of the proposal*. She asked me not to tell Gretsky for a couple of weeks because they wanted to tell their families first, and were waiting for that weekend.

So I didn't.

In a separate stream of thought and action, I emailed Alby for a catchup. She'd been having a shitty week, so in the general chitchat of the email I mentioned these friends of mine who got engaged over the weekend. She didn't know them, but I thought the story of the proposal was a nice one and might cheer her up.

You see where this is going, don't you?

Twenty minutes later Alby called me. She'd just surprised the hell out of Sam by calling him and asking, "Is there something you want to tell me?" Even though I didn't mention names in my email, she'd recognised Sam in the details of the story. Consider the secret out.

What are the odds my new Brisvegas friend's partner is my good Canberra friend's childhood friend?

Jump to a week ago and Alby and I caught the red-eye flight together from Perth for Bec & Sam's wedding. I thought I got over the worlds colliding aspect when the connection was originally revealed, but I still had a few moments standing between people on my right talking about Gretsky and people on my left talking about Alby.** Weird, man. Weird.

------------------------------
* There were exquisitely choreographed penthouses and deluxe dinners and bended knees and complete surprise and tears and all of that.
** Also another of Alby's good friends is the ex-girlfriend of my ex's best friend from school. It's ok if you had to read that a few times before it made sense. I'd do some diagrams, but I'm pretty lazy.

Evening on the ground

2007-05-12T16:25:00.000+10:00

Here is a secret.

People tell me things. I'm not sure I should list this as a skill, or as timing, or a coincidence. But people, more often than not, tell me things. I shoulda been a ... something else with more sense. Instead I'm a government schlub faced with people opening up to me left right and centre.

Generally I invite it, I suspect. I am so fascinated by people, how they work, what they think, the ways their lives proceed, that we amble down the path of revelation together. Somehow I manage to stay on the side of polite interest rather than intrusive stalker. Tonight, the taxi driver, apropos of nothing much, broke down and cried as we got near my house and we had a discussion (meter stopped) about love and its fleeting nature and how we both deserved it and so on and so forth, parked in front of my house, me comforting a sixty year old cabbie whose partner left him for a bus driver ("she traded down, a bus driver, and he lives in a caravan at his mother's place, for god's sake, she left me for a bus driver, I loved her and she left me for him") and he thinks that is his last chance. He saw her last week, because she still lives in the same neighbourhood as him, and he wanted to make pea and ham soup like they used to make, and he was in the supermarket looking at the peas and not sure which ones were the right ones and he looked up and there she was and he asked her which peas to get and she couldn't remember either. Did I cry too? Not until after he'd (waited until I was in my front door and) driven off into the impersonal night. I cried over a random cabbie who took on my $10 fare from the Valley and I barely know his name (Graham) or care (his son-in-law worries that he is too nice and I agree).

A couple of weeks ago I gave a different cabbie career advice because he'd been studying for years but didn't know what he wanted to do, and at 45 he felt that he was stuck in his life and had no options. So we discussed options and with my fare I gave him some websites to look at for job opportunities in the community sector. Before that, a lady on the bus told me her partner beat her so she left him but now she wants to go back to him. So we talked about what else she could do and where she could go and how love confuses things, as important as it is. This is an ongoing theme in my life. Something about me makes people tell me their secrets and their hurts and desires. I never know what to say back to them.

Most of all what I want to say is I AM NOT QUALIFIED FOR THIS. I am not special. I don't know what to say. I know two-fifths of five-eighths of fuck-all. I am a child. I have headphones on in public because people scare me. I know what the sky looks like before a storm. I know what a plant needs to grow. That is all. What I know of people and their relationships fits into the palm of my hand. I had love, and it withered and died, I want to (did) say. I don't know why she left you for the bus driver. I don't know why he hit you. I don't know why you feel lost. Why are you asking me when I can't help you? All I can do is listen and helplessly pat your hand.

That is all.

Mangoman gets blogging

2007-05-09T13:19:00.000+10:00

Check it.

Oh yes, and the holiday snaps

2007-05-08T15:04:00.000+10:00

I have teh flickr now. Don't expect too much from it though. My only camera is a 35mm SLR*. Takes pictures well good but the film doesn't fit in the USB port properly.

----------------------------
* Thanks to K for the lend of her nifty little digital number for the snapping

West Coast style

2007-05-08T10:10:00.000+10:00

I made it back in one piece from my western adventure. Miff's beaten me to the post/s, so for photos and commentary, nip over to hers and have a look. There's a full list of her posts at the end of this one, or you can just start here and go up. I don't have too much to add, except that it was awesome, my jeans no longer fit and the western bit of the country is lovely.

Highlights. Let's see. It's hard to get over Holy Shit I Patted A Cheetah, Giraffes, Rhinos And An Elephant. Alby's one of those people who inspires others to random acts of extreme generosity, and I'm happy to say we reaped the benefits. We ate an enormous amount of good food and drank copious delicious beers and wines and teas. There were many random things which tickled me immensely, like the need to clothing-check each morning because we all owned versions of the same clothes and shoes. Miff's pretty much covered the rest.

I feel a bit guilty about the (lack of) effort I put into being a tourist. WA, you're a lovely state, and Freo in particular I adore, but to be honest, I've seen a lot of you before, and my priorities were to soak up the feeling of being with people I love, and to eat food and drink wine with them, in that order. Being reconciled to being far away from loved ones no matter where I go (this is the trade-off for shaking the dust from your heels every few years) doesn't mean I don't miss people randomly and terribly.

Anyway, three better companions a girl could not have wished for. We did plenty of the emotional stuff over in the west, but I'll avoid replicating it here. Suffice to say it was just lovely. Eighteen months of talking condensed into eight days. An average of 75 in-jokes per minute. Moments of silence broken by the Beatles and showtunes and a particularly memorable rendition of Jebediah's 'Leaving Home'. Given we all met at a workplace which hired us for our ability to communicate, the ease of it all shouldn't surprise me. But it does. I'm not the best at spending large blocks of time with anyone, let alone a rolling maul of singing, dancing, talking, laughing people. Two days is generally my limit before I start to need space. And yet, that just didn't happen this time. That level of comfort is rare and amazing.

Cheers, girls.

Miff's posts:
Perth - beginnings of several stories
Perth - Pie Baking
Samson the Super Yabbie
High Tea
Freo Pubs - the (drunken) tale begins
Drunken Dancing
Car Trip to Gracetown and Margaret River
Wineries and Whiners
Lake Cave
Sunset over the ocean
King's Park and UWA
Self Portraits of the WA Variety

We are wise wise women, we are giggling girls

2007-04-24T14:54:00.000+10:00

Dear Internets,

You know that I heart you dearly. So I hope you don't take it badly when I ignore you for the next couple of weeks.

Soon I will fly across the country to a reunion of sorts. It's been planned for about a year now. It's going to be like a primary school sleepover, but with a lot more wine and cheese, and probably a lot more sleep. There will be staying up late talking about boys and how to save the world, eating of incredible food, watching the sun set over the Indian Ocean, and (this is mandatory) drunken dancing in our pyjamas. If it were to be rendered in cute caricature, as a group we would apparently look something like this:

Will I try to post? Maybe. Depends how jealous I feel like making you all with tales of exciting Western adventures/sleeping on the floor.

lots of love,
Sherd.

Fraternity

2007-04-21T15:06:00.000+10:00

So, maybe I'm a bit tipsy. Maybe. But not as tipsy as the nabla I just sent off across the bridge in the direction of his beautiful love. Sorry, K. For the record, I didn't think the box of wine was a great idea. Well, actually, I did. The bottle-shop guy didn't. But who cares what he thinks, right? Stupid bottle shop guy. Pfft. What does he know? Between the change in my pocket and the change in his we had enough. Whatever.

My parents tell a funny story. When they had two small babies, they had a three bedroom house. A room for each of us. But somehow my brother and I ended up in the same room anyway. And, conveniently, when I cried, he would be there before they were, stopping me crying. "Shhhh", he'd say, "loud," all eighteen months of wisdom. And I'd shhh. True story. And he decided to dismantle the cot one day, at two years of age, setting us free, putting the wooden pieces in a neat pile on the floor, leaving my parents to wonder at two grinning wandering babies and the need for a leash. I was innocent, of course, him the bad influence. Of course.

Then, when I was two, and they kicked me out of the car on Fraser Island for not wearing my seatbelt, nabla cried like (the little baby he was) a little baby until they came back to get me, "who am I going to play with now?" (meanwhile I'd made myself at home at some stranger's camp, much to their surprise, "Marge, there's a random two year old at the campfire!"). Not that I ever argued about wearing my seatbelt again.

In school, right through, people would ask me, "are you nabla's sister?", based on some resemblance of cheekbones or surnames or something, and I would say, "Who?" and he would say, "Who?" and we'd studiously ignore each other and get off at different bus stops (no mean feat when the bus stops were kilometres apart) to seem unrelated.

One day I moved to a northish city to be closer to him and we sat on wooden seats at a pub discussing the world and how to fix it, and we talked of warm air and rain and politics and love and haircuts and the world, and we made friends with the people around us and the pub owner and waxed lyrical about culture and mixed race and bought a box of wine that we drank in a dimly lit loungeroom and listened to Nick Cave and he showed me where to put my fingers on the guitar he gave me, and I thought, Yes, this is why I came here, this is part of it, this is my life, and was happy.

And then I drank a lot of water and took some paracetamol, because I know how this story ends, and it's not always pretty.

Quirkyalone fever

2007-04-20T12:39:00.000+10:00

This morning I got up, got ready, headed off to work and had made it a couple of blocks before I realised the reason I was walking so slowly was because the pesky ground wouldn't stay flat. That was when I decided to give up and go back to bed. I'm not averse to the occasional sick day, but they seem so wasted when you're actually sick.

So this post is courtesy of a spacey fever and a cranking headache. Well, the headache's not too bad, I've been sending it paracetamol on and off all day, which has been sorting the fever out as well. Hurrah modern medicine. Part of me thinks fuck up, sook, but my brain has other ideas. Doing stupid things like getting out of the shower and realising I hadn't rinsed the conditioner out of my hair. Not noticing the flame on the stove making friends with the wooden handle of the kettle. Forgetting to move my head out of the way of the opening door. It's kind of amusing in a slightly delirious/slimy/charred/bruising way.

Spartacus sent me this article on quirkyalones in response to my last post. Still deciding whether he's trying to be insulting or helpful. Probably both. I first heard the term a couple of years ago, but I'm yet to come up with a clear view on what I think about it.

Wait, wtf is quirkyalone?

"Quirkyalone" is a neologism, referring to someone who enjoys being single (but is not opposed to being in a relationship) and generally prefers to be alone rather than dating for the sake of being in a couple.

I think it's an interesting way to look at the increasing trend of people staying single rather than settling for less than ideal relationships, but I also see it as playing on the weaknesses of single people. Is that bad? I dunno. Only as far as any idea that might lead to people falsely justifying or papering over something, I guess. It's a manifesto that takes the sting out of some of the other labels applied to single people; at the same time, it sidesteps any discussion about why we think being single is somehow less than being in a relationship. "Here's a more positive label for you sad people that can't attract a mate! But don't worry, it's still based on the idea that really, deep down, all anyone wants is to be in a relationship, just this time, it's with another quirkyalone person!" Are people really staying single because they just haven't found their miracle? Or is it because the pressure to be in a heterosexual traditional relationship is lessening and people are realising it doesn't need to be their ultimate goal in life?

Maybe it's a bit more simple. Maybe I'm just not the target market. I am single. But I'm probably not quirkyalone*, as much as the descriptions of enjoying solitude (I do, thanks for asking) and seeking "momentous meetings" appeal. I've spent three-quarters of the past decade in serious monogamy. This current singledom has lasted somewhere between eighteen months and two years (it's a definitional issue), which, in the grand scheme of things, is pretty small potatoes. And for me being single is more attitudinal than chronological - two years between kisses perhaps, but really not very long since I started thinking I might want to go back out there. The difference between absence and lack, I suppose.

More than that, though, I really don't have a sense of needing romantic love in order for my life to happen. Of course loving and being loved makes the world go round** etc, but in real terms, I have great friends, a kickarse family, financial security, a full life all by myself. I don't need saving, or completion, by some external other, be they a matching puzzle piece or not. Emotional security is something that I want before I enter a relationship, not something that will come about because of it. I am also clear-eyed about what will happen in a few years time if I am single and decide to have kids. Which is to say, I will do so. With all the considerations that people are supposed to have, is it right to bring another human into this mad overcrowded world, can I afford it, will I be able to bring them up to be good people.

And maybe I am able to be confident because subconsciously I think I won't be single forever. What the Baach calls my "particularness" aside***, recent excursions into the world of grown-ups has reminded me that people are fascinating, and humbling, and all manner of good things. They are out there. I love love; being in love is wonderful. Love is the cherry on top, and I recognise that my life will be sweeter if and when I'm ready for it again.

Sweeter. Because it is already sweet.

--------------------------
* According to the quiz I'm "97 - very quirkyalone". Of course I did the quiz. I love those things.
** Or conservation of rotational energy does. I forget which. It's one of those things, anyway.
*** "You get that from me," she says.

It's just your ghost passing through

2007-04-18T16:18:00.000+10:00

It's a general policy of the management around here that overly personal things are for the privacy of good friends and a bottle of wine. But policies are made to be reviewed, as every good public servant knows. So let's get maudlin.

Once, in the dim dark past, I fell in love. It was a grand tale. Our first kiss was magic; a summer night, in the rain, in the middle of the street, months of flirtation coming to an end. His first comment afterwards was, "I've never kissed a girl with a tongue piercing before". Well, maybe that part wasn't so romantic. But you get the general idea. Love. Complete. Irrational. Intense.

And, as it turned out, heart-breaking. I thought, in the midst of my ignorant bliss, that love would save my gentle boy from his black dog days and demon nights. We tried, you know. We gave it a red-hot go. There was happiness there, joy, but there was sadness, too. Over the years the sadness got bigger, took on a life of its own, swamped everything else.

But it wasn't just the brain chemistry, it was us as well. Us? Me. In the end, I got tired. Exhausted, even. With him, with me, with everything. With trying and failing, constantly. So, in its way, a story no more and no less than hundreds of thousands of stories of failed loves. For me, though, I can't forget that when it all boiled down, I chose not to spend the rest of my life battling demons. Not even for that gentle boy. It wasn't a test, but I still failed. I couldn't do it. Couldn't? Didn't want to. We weren't enough. I wasn't enough.

What's my point? An explanation of sorts, I think, on the off chance you were looking for one. Mostly I seem normal, functional, happy. I am all those things at some level. Mostly the wounds are healed. It's not a train of thought that comes up too often these days. When it does, I can accept it was set up to fail, that it wasn't a betrayal because people need to save themselves, not to be saved. I don't believe in martyrdom anymore. But I cut him loose. I didn't want to stay. I chose to let it die rather than stay and fight... when you talk about loss of trust, you are supposed to mean trust in other people.

I'm not planning to spend the rest of my life in solitude, and eventually it'll work itself out, this frozen spiky numb thing. I'll find the part of my brain that has twisted and I'll untwist it. I won't always see the worst possible scenario. The thought of taking that risk again won't paralyse me and exhaust me all at once. In the end, with time and space, when the timing/person/season/phase of the moon is right, all those platitudes that are supposed to distract me from the constant movement forward of everyone else in my life when I am stuck in some strange limbo. And I guess it will. I don't want to be broken traumatised melodrama girl forever. It's ridiculous, it's boring, and it's downright frustrating for people who come into contact with it. I'm sick of this story; I want a new one.

/melodrama

Mojojojo*

2007-04-13T14:58:00.000+10:00

Blogging mojo is a mysterious beast. Mine departs, rapidly, when the swirls of the outside world become too mesmerising and I get lost in external happenings. Real life being too real, perhaps.

Anyway, I've drawn a blank. May as well be upfront about it. Other people's lives have been distracting me, like fireworks in the middle distance. In here, things seem calm and quiet, but out there, weddings, babies, promotions, redundancies, career changes, breakups, makeups... it's a maelstrom, people, and it's drawing me in. And I like it.

Normal transmission to resume some time next week.

---------------------
* with apologies to any evil genius monkeys out there

Loose links - fairy godmother edition

2007-04-12T13:16:00.000+10:00

It's my dream in life to be a fairy godmother. One day, that dream will come true.

With that in mind, let's see what washed up on the interwebs today.

Huggable lights.

Popgadget says:

The REi Huggable is a furry pillow that contains LED lights. The lights are embedded within silicone bubbles so that the light the pillow emits is warm and natural-like... Plus the silicone absorbs body heat and mimics the contours and feel of a living thing, to create the feeling of the pillow hugging you back.

I could swear I've wanted one of these forever, but since I only heard about it last week, I suppose that might technically be a lie.

I am addicted to this sliding scale on the Nikon site. Hover over the shapes for bites of info; click for more detail; jump around the ruler. Hours. Seriously. Hours. (via notcot)

A scientific and rigorous approach to dessert. Because everything makes more sense in a periodic table. (via tastespotting)

At New Years last year, there was cable in the hotel. Inevitably, hungover hours were spent watching it. Unfortunately, there were limited channels. Happily, one of them had a Pimp My Ride special. Sadly, hippie tendencies meant I'd randomly feel moments of eco-guilt. Then Pimp My Ride and ol' Gov Schwarznegger did a Pimp My Ride Total Fucking Hippie special. And all was well with the world. Go ~~West Coast~~ Galpin!

Now shoo. I've got knitting to do.

Chatterbabies, or, if my dad ran the world

2007-04-11T15:46:00.000+10:00

"No, no, Blues and Roots was great," he says, leaning back in the armchair. "The only annoying thing was the chatterbabies."

"Chatterbabies?" we quiz, sensing a theory.

"You know, chatterbabies. There's a man, or a band or something, up on stage, playing their little hearts out," he mimes strumming and drumming and singing, all at once, hands flickering in the lamplight, "and people are standing there, listening to the music, and then there's the chatterbabies. Chattering. They have good, long, loud chats, about all sorts of things. And then they move a couple of metres and text each other. Or text chatterbabies in other tents. And then more chatterbabies arrive, and it starts all over again."

He shakes his head, sad for the youth of today.

"But it's ok, I know how to fix it," he declares suddenly. "I mean, it's not like we don't want them to buy the tickets and bring their money to the festivals. We just need to give them a place to chatter among themselves."

"There's chill-out tents..." ventures K.

"Oh, I don't mean chill-out tents. I mean a place they can all gather and chatter away and text each other and the rest of us can enjoy the festival. You know, like the kids table. The kids tent! We couldn't call it that, of course, but that would be the idea. They'd have fun, we'd have fun, everyone would be happy."

"But how would you lure them there?" I ask.

He thinks for a moment. Inspiration strikes.

"Missy. Higgins."

Pause. Gathering momentum.

"And that Amorosi woman. Then we'd put a ring of stalls around it selling only hot chips. And Smirnoff cans! It'd be perfect."

Rain

2007-04-07T09:32:00.000+10:00

It's raining. I'm eating a pear and listening to Art of Fighting while the house fills up with the smell of rain. It's nice. I'm overtired and everything seems a little bit distant and at the same time a little too raw.

Dawn saw me meeting parents at the airport and some time later waving them, nabla and K, all shoehorned into Billie, off as they left for Blues & Roots. Yes, the entire rest of my family is cooler than me. Even my car is cooler than me. Le sigh. Before they left we had hot cross buns and the usual stream of words and actions that surround my family when we are all in the same place. In between hijacking the washing machine I curled up on the beanbag and clamoured for coffee and attention like the youngest child I am. Photos of the causeway being washed away during the cyclone were viewed and serious-faced discussion of water was interrupted by gossiping about the hippies in the next valley and a complete tangent about motorbikes. Random family drama #37482 was solved by discovering my dad had talked to my uncle, quite the controversial revelation as my mum's side is long on females and the usual channels of communication are through the three sisters.

I decided to mess with my head even more after they all left by falling asleep upstairs waiting for a load of washing to finish. I woke up on the brown couch groggy and confused and wondering where all my stuff was until it finally occurred to me I didn't live there anymore. Safely home now and feeling hollow, not in a bad way, just in a quiet way. A quiet rain-scented way. It's the tiredness talking; I haven't taken a breath all week, one thing after another grabbing my brainspace and demanding attention. Add a clever decision to give blood halfway through the first week into a new project at work and neighbours' late-night/early morning partying and I'm happy I made it this far. I have a nice balance of things to do, people to see and time to myself between now and Tuesday. Time for breathing and regaining some equilibrium.

Right now, though, there's some chocolate needs eating.

And then a nap may be in order.

All the cool kids are doing it

2007-04-05T12:53:00.000+10:00

You there, reading this. Are you enrolled to vote? Is your enrolment up to date?

Get Up (via the delectable mskp) tells me you will only have until 8pm on the day the election is called to sort yourself out. The Electoral Act sez:

The date fixed for the close of the Rolls is the third working day after the date of the writ.
Note: However, generally names are not added to or removed from the Rolls after the date of the writ.

At a recent election it turned out that nabla had been removed from the electoral roll because of an administrative stuff up - somewhere in the transfer of enrolment he'd been unenrolled. I can't remember if it was the council or state election, but in any case, he couldn't vote and it was not cool. The Electoral Commission have a nifty little online verification thingo you can use to check whether you're all up to date. Go on, give it a go. Everyone loves filling out forms, right?

And if, like me, you're still enrolled at your old address, the forms are on there to update as well.

Gretsky update

2007-04-05T12:18:00.000+10:00

I've done nice things for Gretsky as well.

Like introducing her to my good mate Waz one summer evening.

After they got together, I told them they had to invite me to their wedding if they ever got married because I introduced them. Because I'm obnoxious like that.

They said, "fuck off, marriage is for suckas! Now we'll never get married just so you miss out!"

Because they're obnoxious like that too.

That invite'd better be on the way.

Suckas!

(Congratulations, lovelies)

Give me a G

2007-04-03T13:47:00.000+10:00

I had just arrived at uni, all bright eyes and purple corduroy pants, when I met a girl in my Japanese class who happened to be a born-again Christian. She introduced me to a friend of hers, Gretsky, in the same class. I assumed she was also a born-again Christian. She assumed I was. We were polite to each other. Then came a Monday when the born-again Christian girl wasn't there, and Gretsky and I had a polite chat about our weekends and on the way, established that we both a) did not attend church, b) had not given our lives to Jesus Christ and c) had been avoiding the other because of the religion thing. Talk about revelations. A (heathen) friendship was born.

Over the following years we kept turning up in each other's classes, pubs and homes. I shamelessly rode her coat-tails in many a class and she shamelessly let me. Together, we counted the references our lecturers made to their most recently published works, rolled our eyes at the comments in tutes by the Young National guy with stinky shoes and commiserated over a shared tendency to be unable to string a sentence together when talking to our awesome but intimidating Japanese teacher.

A quick look over the last decade or so shows Gretsky's quiet influence woven into my life. She convinced me to have a bash at the Monbusho scholarship exam; she told me she agreed it was reasonable to spend a year in Japan just because you got to have the degustation at the Chairman and Yip with the Ambassador before you went; and for my 21st she organised all-you-can-drink karaoke to start the evening, followed by sweet-talking a bar near her place into giving me a free membership and a bottle of sake and then convincing the whole bar to sing me happy birthday. Best. 21st. Evah. When the whole cheating bastard thing happened, she made me a care package including a brochure welcoming me to the Singles Association (slogan, "love is a pile of poo"). Then she tracked down wine and cheese and busted us out of some boring conference dinner to get smashed and overdose on dairy in our cabin.

When I was little, I used to worry about how many people I could fit into my heart. What if, I wondered, there is only a finite amount of love allocated for each person to give out, and once that's used up, you stop loving people? To my seven-year-old mind, it seemed to explain the strange adult world of shifting relationships. Two decades on I realise not only was I quite the weird kid, but also the amount of people you can fit into your heart is infinite. The limit is not in emotion. As I blunder through cities and situations, the reality of people passing in and out of my life and my heart begins to sink in and I slowly accept some people will drift off the radar, even as others grow larger, sometimes regardless of the affection involved.

I've been sorting through some boxes of stuff this past weekend. I hoard memories. Cards, letters, ticket stubs, little fragments that remind me of those connections grown faint across time and distance. I think I do this for a couple of reasons. It's good to occasionally remember the person I was five, ten, fifteen years ago, even if part of that recollection includes a lot of cringing (oh, the melodrama of a 17 year old sherd! Can you imagine? Complete. Wanker.). Also, it gives me perspective on my life, the tangents and the intersections, the billions of individual stories out there, each as central to their owners as my reality is to me. It's easy to get wrapped up in my own head and my own story; it's refreshing to remember there is a greater story of which I am a tiny part. Did Sammy Ludwig marry that boy and move to the villa in Spain? Did Jarred Butto become a rock star? Did John Loy climb Kilimanjaro? Do they ever wonder what happened to that odd girl they once knew? The popularity of sites like Friends Reunited shows that to know someone for a period of time - weeks, months, years - and then however long later still retain enough of that connection to muse on their trajectory isn't unusual.

Sometimes I think it's inevitable that people lose touch with other people. I'm as lazy as the next person; irregular jaunts down memory lane over a box of paper and trinkets doesn't mean a lot to anyone but me. According to an old journal, seven years ago this week, I find Guinness for Gretsky's birthday and we drink it and go to karaoke, and then a couple of days later we go to hanami at Inokashirakoen and watch mad people and eat sakura icecream, and a few days after that we go to a Regurgitator & Zoobombs concert and on the way home are filmed for a commercial eating takoyaki on the street at 2am saying "Love" holding a sign saying "Lave". I'm not sure when we were going to class or working, but clearly we didn't let it get in the way of propping up Japan's beer and karaoke industries.

I've realised tomorrow is the first of either of our birthdays in many years we won't celebrate together with a beer at a pub, seeing as neither of us has managed to engineer a convenient conference or interstate holiday. All this musing has made me realise that there are some people it doesn't matter with, though. We could drift in and out of each other's radar and then I could front up on her doorstep, or she on mine, in another seven years, or fourteen, or twenty one, and we would grab a couple of beers, or some coffee and cheesy toast, and pick up where we left off. And probably will.

Happy birthday, Gretsky. You za great.

pic

Rush

2007-03-30T13:11:00.000+10:00

My brain is fried. It's 8 o'clock and I'm about to go to bed. Today was intense. The culmination of some work that's been going on for a few months, with a final manic buzz over the last couple of weeks focussed on an hour today. It was fascinating to see an idea created by a number of people over months of work draw down to the decision made by a couple of people around a shiny oversized boardroom table in a room that smelt of stale percolator coffee.

I was only there by an accident of timing. Usually my part in the piece would have finished much earlier, but the person I was reporting to left, and then the person they were reporting to left, and then there was no-one between me and my uber-boss who knew enough about the details to answer the questions. When the meeting invite landed in my inbox, all I could think was one of these things is not like the other ones... but miss an opportunity to see firsthand what really happens at that level? Not bloody likely.

Of course it didn't really occur to me until later that being there to provide advice would mean I'd have to... provide advice. I wasn't worried about the hierarchy thing - I'm too Generation Whatever for that - but I did have a nervous moment when I realised the advice I was there to provide could influence the decision that was made, and on a much more selfish level, what my uber-boss thinks of my ability. It was about then the words career-limiting move started to circle around in my head.

It's ok, the story has a happy ending. I spoke in full sentences, answered all the questions and didn't say anything stupid or even call my uber-boss or the other uber-person "dude". No-one shouted, there was no thumping of the table and no papers flung around in anger (don't ask), some tricky things got agreed on and then there were smiles and handshakes. Hurrah.

I was quietly doing mental somersaults in the corner - first-name basis with the uber-boss, go me! - when the uber-boss came over to say, "Thanks, ah ... thanks for that, well done."

Which was when I realised the uber-boss had no idea what my name was.

Ah well. Fame is fleeting. Back to the faceless masses for me.